A Taste For Redheads
by Joachim Myrdal
Summary: When a girl shows up wearing an ancient mark, ADA Novak calls in her former philosophy professor to help. In Chapter 23, it all ends, as Oliver and Casey share one last moment. Please review!
1. At the Crime Scene: Stabler

Elliot Stabler had seen many strange things in his time. Several years working for the Manhattan Special Victims Unit had immunized him to many of them; these days, he simply went through the motions of each case. Every once in a while, though, a particular case piqued him and revived in him the reasons he'd taken the job in the first place. This was going to be one of those cases, and he first knew it from the smell.

"Victim?"

"White female in her twenties. More than that we can't tell you. Found naked in the grass over there"–the officer pointed at a large clump of bushes about thirty yards away–"with these on her." She withdrew a large plastic bag containing a few items. Stabler held out his hand for it; she let go of it extremely quickly. He inspected it for a moment, then put it in his own pocket. He'd already made sure they wouldn't call Olivia and wake her up; it was one o'clock on a Saturday night, Fin was probably out, and Munch was easily reachable. He didn't know why he'd taken such pains to make sure his partner slept undisturbed, but he could only muster up the reason that she deserved a rest.

But he had that whole thing about pushing himself too much.

"Elliot?"

"Munch. How is it over there?"

"They don't know what she died of," he replied. "No marks on her. They only found that stuff and a couple of calling cards. Here's one." Munch flicked him a card. "It looks like something I heard about in college. The Order of the Black Rose."

Elliot glanced at the card.

On one side, it had an imprinted image of a fully bloomed black rose with bloody thorns. On the other side was a cryptic message: _Magisters beware._ Elliot flipped the card and looked at the inside, but there was nothing else there, not even a word.

"Whatever a Magister is, I'd hate to be one right now."

"Should I call Cragen and tell him about it?"

"Good thinking, John. And if Casey isn't there by now, see about waking her up. We may need a court order for records on this stuff."

"You'd think I was your secretary."

"I got bad news for you, John . . . while we're the only two here, you are."

He left Munch looking even sourer than usual and walked down to the grass in time to see the victim wrapped up. Though death had definitely ruined some of her, the girl must have been beautiful in life; he _tsk_ed to no one but himself and crouched in the bushes, put on his latex gloves, and looked through the grasses, separating even the individual blades to make sure he hadn't missed anything. But after a few moments, he stood again and drew out the plastic bag with what had been found on the victim. After dropping the card in, he removed two pieces of jewelry; an old ring and a necklace with a Swiss cross as the pendant. Both were silver, and though Elliot was no damned jeweler he could tell they were of good quality. He wondered if the girl had been rich.

"Casey's not too happy with either of us."

"Why?"

"She was asleep." Munch shrugged. "You know, I'm only here because there's no better idea for a fun midnight hour. I imagine our dear ADA gets a lot more sleep."

"Did she agree to a court order?"

"For what, Elliot, the city's Red Squad files? You have to be a little more specific, which is another reason she's not too happy with us. On the other hand, mentioning the card seems to have done the trick on her."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because she told me she knew something about it. Apparently some universities have a chapter of a group called the Order of the Black Rose. It's generally nonviolent, a kind of genteel fraternity – no hazing, that kind of thing – but if they need someone to be humiliated, they usually are. I thought I'd heard of something like that."

"Does _this _usually happen?"

"Usually the victim's not dead."

"They never got punished?"

"They were rich kids. Their parents would just offer donations to half a dozen good causes to cover it all up. I know very little about it, though, so I'd ask Casey next time I saw her around, if I were you. It seems she's had her brushes with it."

"Hmm. What do you make of the jewelry?"

"Why? Do you want to steal it?"

"Not particularly," Elliot replied, "but now that you mention it . . ."

"I was kidding."

"Sure you were. Anyway, do you think either of the pieces has any significance?"

"Won't know until we talk to Casey. Elliot, damn it, I'm not the encyclopedia. I know you expected a smarter partner on this one, but right now I just feel like going back home and watching teenage slasher movies on television until I pass out from the torture of watching how badly they're made. I'm not in my best condition right now."

"All right, all right, John . . . don't have to get in my face about it."

"You wouldn't listen if I didn't."

Elliot forced himself to admit that that was true and wondered who the hell would have killed this girl. Certainly she wasn't mugged – no blood, no robbery, and the calling card. It all seemed to lead to this Order of the Black Rose and nothing else. He wondered if it would really be so easy to demand records for Order members and begin looking at them, seeing who had known the girl, who had fought with her, behavioral reports . . .

"That was Casey."

"What'd she say?"

"Well, she wants to have a specialist on the Order. As you might think, most of them are the members and former members of the Order itself, which are the fathers of the present membership, so they won't be too keen to give us information. Instead, she's talked to a professor of philosophy at Princeton to come over and help us out."

Elliot waited for the punchline. Sometimes specialists came from everywhere – but a philosophy professor was _not _high on his list of "People Who Can Help Me Figure Out This Goddamned Murder." On the other hand, Casey wouldn't have called if she did not think the man knew something, a fact of which Elliot was very much aware.

"Who is he?"

"Oliver Priest," Munch replied at once, "but that tells me squat. As far as I know, the only connection he has is that he taught Casey. I hope there's more to it than that."

"I gotta agree with you there, John."

Elliot clapped his temporary partner on the back and walked up towards the bus. He could already tell that this was going to be a very long day.


	2. The Specialist: Novak

"Hello, is this the office of Professor Oliver Priest?"

"_Yes, this is his assistant, Justine Gray. How may I help you_?"

"I need his home phone number."

"_I need your name. He likes to have a list of who has his numbers.._"

"ADA Casey Novak, Manhattan Special Victims Unit."

"_Oh, you're the one from that Oliver Taft case, right_?"

"Yes," Casey said as she reddened, "that would be me."

"_Yes, the professor was kind of ashamed to be named Oliver after that._"

"I can imagine."

"_Try 905-2210._"

"Thanks."

Casey wrote down the number and hung up, then reviewed her knowledge about Professor Oliver Priest. She knew exactly two things about him, other than his name and subject: a) His age, which was exactly ten years older than her – forty-four, and b) he had always disliked hearing of the Order of the Black Rose.

Time to see if he still did.

She picked up the phone, dialed the number, and hoped with every fiber of her soul that Priest was a light sleeper. God must have been listening to her, because after a single ring, the other end picked up, and she heard a voice she remembered so well.

"_Oliver Priest, single and looking, partial to redheads speaking._"

Casey raised her eyebrows and chuckled. Apparently the philosophy professor from her years at Princeton hadn't changed at all. She remembered a man with a real taste for ancient literature, a gift for debate, an elephant's memory – and a very strange mind.

"Hello, Professor. This is ADA Casey Novak, Manhattan Special Victims – "

"_Yes, from the Oliver Taft case. Justine said you'd be calling._"

"Ah." She rearranged the information in her mind. "Professor, we have a murder case in New York that may have had something to do with the Order of the Black Rose. I wondered if we might be able to have you over here to help us with your knowledge?"

"_You said your name was Casey Novak_?"

"Yes."

"_Novak . . . Novak . . . should I have said the part about redheads_?"

"Professor – "

"_Yes, I'm sorry. Just wanted to be polite. You want help on a murder that has to do with the Order of the Black Rose_? _I'm surprised they had to nerve to kill someone._"

"Well, that's why we need your help, Professor."

"_Imagine that. One of my pupils is an ADA now. The rest of them are high-priced doctors and goddamned corporate lawyers, and at least one seems to have gotten the whole point that I was trying to put to her. Maybe I'll go back and edit your grades._"

"Thank you, Professor, but this murder – "

"_I see we're not the least bit interested in why I'm up at midnight, but that's all right. I'll get to New York right now if you need me urgently._"

"Not for another two hours."

"_Ah, then don't deprive me of the opportunity to talk to such a pretty woman . . . assuming, of course, that you haven't been in some horribly scarring accident since I taught you. The Casey Novak I remember was quite magnificent._"

"Thank you again, Professor. Anyway – "

"_Ah, yes. Do you have any identification on the victim_?"

"No, just the calling card of the Order. They left a message this time, though. It says 'Magisters beware' on the opposite side of the black rose."

"_'Magisters beware.' How very rude of them._"

"What do you mean?"

"_Was the victim found with anything on her_?"

"Yes, a necklace with a Swiss cross pendant and a ring. Both were silver."

"_I see._" She heard a shuffle of papers on the other side. "_Well, it seems that your victim is a member of the group that opposed the Order of the Black Rose. Namely, the Order of the Silver Cross, although I believed that it had died out with my generation._"

"Order of the Silver Cross? What about the card?"

"_Well, frankly, I don't think it'd be safe to tell you about 'Magisters beware' over the phone. You're not the first to call about a murder like this, you know._"

"I'm not?"

"_No. Tell your medical examiner to look for signs of white oleander. That is most likely the cause of death; black rose and white oleander, see_?"

"How do you know all of this?"

"_Because nearly a year ago the FBI called to tell me that a man had been killed in a similar fashion in Chicago. Found the same way; naked, the same two pieces of jewelry and the calling card. Not to mention he was killed with white oleander._"

"But the database didn't have any data on it."

"_Because your interstate database doesn't include FBI exclusives, last I heard. It was closed a while ago. The killer's behind bars at this moment, and I imagine he's not too happy with either me or Special Agent Edgar Ness. But as long as he's in prison, I doubt either Edgar or I are in any danger from him._"

"Maybe not. What if this was ordered?"

"_Possibly – the Order of the Black Rose usually liked to disassociate themselves from such low crimes as thievery and murder. It usually meant delegating it to someone else, someone outside the Order. Surely you remember what they used to do in college._"

"That's where they got the idea, isn't it?"

"_I imagine so._"

Casey gulped. When she had been in Princeton, every once in a while, a person – most of the time a woman, but she remembered one case where it was a man – would end up lying on the college campus, unconscious, completely naked except for her jewelry, and with a card with a black rose on it in his or her right hand. It was humiliating to the person, and it seemed to happen after rejecting certain men's advances . . .

"_Casey_? _Are you there_?"

"Ah, yes, I'm sorry, Professor. You were saying?"

"_The Order likes to hide behind their money, so it's very likely you'll run into trouble. I can't read people, but I'd guess that they'll rat him out to save themselves._"

"Oh, I want the killer, too."

"_Too_? _Casey, are you thinking of going against the Order of the Black Rose_?"

"If need be."

"_Tell me, was it my class that turned you reckless_? _First you take on a New York judge, and now you're risking ending up in your birthday suit in Central Park_."

Casey had to laugh at that.

**Thanks to:**

_Readers _– The seventy-nine people who read this. I'm amazed that it got that many reads in a few days – of course, I'm assuming you all took the time to read it.

_Tsom _– Yes, this is it.

_Peace _– Well, I wasn't referring to the quality of the silver itself. Sorry if it looked that way. I meant to draw attention to the fact that the cross was a very fine piece of work, as well as the necklace. If it makes you feel better, you can assume it was white gold, too. I'd appreciate any feedback on that – I'm not too good with jewelry, as you probably noticed.


	3. The Conference Room: Stabler

Olivia had been woken up, Oliver Priest was on his way to New York, and Casey had come into the SVU building to tell the medical examiner about the white oleander – which, to no one's surprise, had turned out to be true. Now Elliot, Olivia, Munch and Casey were sitting around the table in the conference room, reviewing files.

Elliot wished he'd had a cup of coffee when he'd had a chance earlier. Now they were all in for the long haul until the professor showed up, though he'd given Casey his cell number in case they needed to communicate with him again.

"All right there, El?"

"I'm fine, but thanks."

He looked over his copy of the medical examiner's report. The cause of death: poison, specifically white oleander. No bruising. No vaginal tearing or bruising. Murder at its cleanest. And, unfortunately, at its most difficult as well.

"I don't get it."

"What don't you get?"

"Why use this poison?"

Casey looked up. Maybe it was Elliot's mind playing tricks on him, but since she had called Priest, she looked extremely relaxed. He wondered exactly what he had said or done. On the other hand, she seemed to think the professor was a bit strange.

"Black roses and white oleander."

"Excuse me?"

"Black roses and white oleander," Casey said, speaking up. "Priest says it's not the first one of its kind. About a year ago, he was called about one in Chicago, but that killer's in prison already. He says it was FBI."

"FBI cases show up on our database."

"Special Victims Unit cases, but this was straightforward murder to the FBI, so it wasn't put into our files. I'm glad he brought it to our attention, though. We have a few pieces of information that match – the jewelry, the poison, the location – the key stuff."

"Did he know what the jewelry meant?"

"Now that you mention it," Casey replied, "he did. He says the necklace and ring are the marks of being a member of the Order of the Silver Cross, which apparently is an opposition group to the Order of the Black Rose."

"Excuse me?"

"He couldn't tell me over the phone what 'Magisters beware' means, but it looks like it has something do with that. Some sort of revenge, I guess."

"Knightly orders in the 21st century. Damn."

Elliot couldn't blame Munch. This looked like a case to be taken on in the middle of the 1800s, not when it was becoming fashionable to gun down a victim in the street and then blame cops when they went overboard. Murder today had its own type of order, but this had been coldly calculated . . . as if the Order was trying to be _civilized_ about it.

"They could be monastic, too," Munch continued, "but that'd be strange."

"Munch, you said you knew a little about it."

"A little," he acknowledged. "That 'little,' Olivia, is the fact that they exist."

"Well, try jogging your memory," Olivia suggested. "Maybe you've forgotten a little thing you may have heard . . . any little thing."

"I'll try."

Munch made a gesture for Elliot to pass him the card and jewelry, and looked at it for a moment. So far, no prints had been lifted from either of them except the victim's. It looked a hopeless clue for a moment. Elliot returned to his copied report and began trying to fit pieces together until Munch finally looked up, the light of recognition on his eyes.

"I knew someone who had jewelry like this."

"Who?"

"He died a few years ago. Name was Thomas Moreau. Last I heard of him before he died, he was teaching mythology at NYU."

"Moreau?"

"Yes, Moreau."

"Hmm," Casey suddenly said, "I remember that name somehow."

"That," a voice said from the door, "is because he studied philosophy in the same class you did, Casey. It's good to see the years haven't changed you much."

"Casey, who the hell is this?"

"That would be Professor Oliver Priest."

"Doctor, actually," Priest replied, hands in his pockets, "but Professor'll do."

Casey stood and shook his hand; Elliot checked his face the same way he looked for distinguishing marks on a suspect. He had graying hair – once brown, Elliot guessed from the flecks of color still in it – but he was only forty-four from what Casey had said. His eyes were green and full of youthful energy, despite his face already lined with age.

"This is the detective squad here."

"Ah. Very nice to meet you all."

"A pleasure," they all said, more or less at the same time.

"Casey tells me you have a case where the Order of the Black Rose might have some connection. Well, show me what you've got – I'm all ears."

"So far . . ."

Munch passed the card and jewelry over to Priest, who looked it over for about ten seconds. Then he took up the silver cross and examined the pendant very closely, and – in one great motion – slammed the necklace down on the table. Beads rained over the table – Elliot caught four in his fingers – but when they looked up, the professor had a look of utter disgust on his face. Munch was the first to speak, a few seconds afterward.

"Professor, would you mind telling me why you destroyed our evidence?"

"A real Silver Cross necklace," he said, showing them the silver Swiss cross, "would be made of copper and foiled with silver. This thing is pure."

"You're saying the clue is fake?"

"Oh, no. Just stupid." Priest looked down at the card. "This wasn't intended to be a murder of a member of the Order of the Silver Cross, if you ask me. This was meant to warn the members of the Order that the Black Rose was going to come back."

"Professor, how do you know all of this?"

"Funny you should ask, Casey. That was your only problem in my class: when I gave you all the obvious clues in the world, you failed to put two and two together . . . I imagine it's the way you lawyers are trained to find creative solutions to problems."

Priest reached inside his sweater and withdrew a silver necklace, with the pendant a silver Swiss cross – and eroded somewhat; Elliot could see the copper in some places. Then he removed the gloves, and they all saw that there was a silver ring on his finger.

"Oliver Priest," he said, extending his hand, "Magister of the Silver Cross."

**Thanks to:**

_Readers _– When I posted the second chapter, there were seventy-nine hits on the story. Imagine my delight to find out that one hundred and seventy readers chose to at least try the story out, and eighty-four were piqued enough to read through to the second chapter. Thanks for taking the time.

_Wolf Lover_ – Here you go. I'm probably going to get sick of repeating this, but that's all right. I post updates every three days if possible, unless something gets so evil on me that I'm not able to post new chapters (such as, for example, because I don't have them written). At the moment, I have around three more weeks before I run out of chapters, so I'll probably survive.

_Charmed1s-halliwells_ – Well, you'll find parts that are murder mystery, but the focus of this story is definitely on the characters, let me tell you right now. That doesn't mean the crime will take a backseat, but it will sometimes give way for character interaction, as I find that the series sometimes – _sometimes_ – disappoints in that department. Rarely.

_Kudosvu_ – Thank you for your praise. Here is your reward.

_Tsom_ – I'll try.

_Vickie Hickman _– I'm glad you liked the joke. It's the kind of dry humor not too many people like, so I'm glad it reached someone out there.

_Mikaia _– I hope that continues, and yes, I am a purist when it comes to grammar and spelling.


	4. Secrets: Cragen

**Thanks to:**

_Readers_ – Over a hundred readers hit the story over the last two days, and I received so many reviews that I decided to reward the readers by posting the next chapter a bit earlier than I normally do. It won't be too common an occurrence until I finish the story and can afford the luxury of posting a chapter without worrying about how much time I'll need to write the next one.

_Abbie Carmichael_ – Thanks for the praise.

_VampirePrincess86_ – Actually, the story is supposed to focus on her and Priest. The germ for this idea was that I noticed that Casey rarely gets any on and she happens to be one of my favorite characters on the show (Munch was, before he toned down a bit), so yes, you can expect her to play a very major role in this story.

_Jen_ – Yeah, that happens often when I try to review things.

_Charmed1s-halliwells_ – Yes, Oliver Priest is meant to be strange. He's based off most of my teachers molded into one with some of my characteristics (like the one that gave the story its title).

_Vickie Hickman_ – Not the last time it'll do that.

Donald Cragen couldn't believe his ears.

Though he'd known he was in for it when a murder victim showed up naked in Central Park with a card stamped with a black rose, he'd just been told that it had to do with knightly orders of the Silver Cross and the Black Rose and Lord knows what else – and to top it all off, Casey had called in a _philosophy professor_ as their specialist. The press was going to have a field day with their usual speculations.

"That's your point? They're going to kill off members of your Order of the Silver Cross? Members you call – I'm sorry, what was the word again?"

"Magisters," the professor said patiently. "'Magister' is Latin for 'teacher.'"

"Whatever. And this card said 'Magisters beware?'"

"Indeed, Captain."

"Professor, you'll excuse me if I have a hard time believing you . . ."

"Oh, completely," he replied, smiling. "I wouldn't believe it, in your shoes. But I was a member of the Order of the Silver Cross, and I can very much believe that someone is trying to pick us off one by one. We lost a Magister in Chicago, Robert Morgan. And it looks like a second one may have been lost here. Thomas Moreau?"

"Munch's mentioned that name more than once."

"A friend of his, as I imagine he was. Tom Moreau went to study mythology at NYU, but before that, he was in my philosophy class, along with your ADA. Though I'd hoped Casey would join the Order, I wasn't permitted to influence the membership once I had my eight years in it. Moreau did, and it seems that he was murdered for this."

"And let me guess – you have no idea of why the Order of the Black Rose or any other enemy of yours is looking for your Magisters?"

"Oh, I have a very good idea."

"Which is?"

"The Order of the Black Rose and the Order of the Silver Cross have always been at odds, Captain. I'm not allowed to tell you the full range of it because of oaths I made some time ago, but I do know that there is an ancient enmity between the two orders."

"_Oaths_? We have a dead girl on our hands and you're talking about _oaths_?"

"I could break them," he said without his expression changing, "but then I'd have no honor at all. At the very least let me get in touch with the current Emeritus, so that I'm cleared to give you the information."

"Professor, I don't think – "

"I understand the gravity of the situation, Captain," he replied, "but I really must have the Emeritus' clearance before I do anything. I wish to give you the information, you understand, but the Order of the Silver Cross has survived for four centuries because it was careful, not necessarily because it helped the police. Excuse me."

He swept out of Cragen's office, said a quick hello to Casey, and put on his hat as he left. A moment later, Casey herself came into the office, her eyebrows raised – Cragen guessed Priest had said something more than just a greeting to her.

"He didn't tell you, did he?"

"No."

"He wouldn't tell me either."

"Well, at least he's giving us a reason why. I hope whoever this Emeritus is tells him to get on with it, or we're going to have to arrest him for obstruction."

"It's just as when I knew him."

"You were his student at Princeton?"

"Philosophy," she replied. "He covered everything from Socrates to Ayn Rand in a year. I didn't know he was so much into all of this until now, though – I just thought he had gotten into a tussle with some of the Order's members, nearly all the professors hated them. Rich kids," she said and scoffed, "always strutting around the place . . ."

"The Order's made up of old money?"

"The Black Rose, yes," she said. "It's the Silver Cross one I don't know anything about. They kept to themselves. I know Priest wanted me to join it, but he couldn't tell them to do anything about it. It looks like they were just some kind of group that talked and debated every once in a while. They were almost always the smartest."

"I thought you said you didn't know who was a member."

"Not until now. I remember there were three people with silver Swiss crosses in my class; Tom Moreau, Anna Fleming, and Jane Delaney."

"And all three wore the ring?"

"Just Moreau. I think that's what makes them a Magister."

"And you would be quite right."

Cragen looked up and saw a rather apologetic Priest in the doorway. He stepped inside the office, motioned to a chair. Cragen nodded, and the professor sat down in it, his hands clearly on the table, where Cragen could see the silver ring on his finger.

"You're a Magister?"

"I used to be." He smiled. "The Order has three kinds of members; the Brothers, those who have just been inducted and have no special status; the Magisters, elected from the Brotherhood, who are tasked with teaching and educating them, being guides to them, and they retain their rank even after leaving college; and the Emeritus, the only active member of the Order who doesn't have to be in college. He leads the Order until he dies, and then the next oldest Magister is chosen as Emeritus."

"I assume you have your Emeritus' permission?"

"Oh, he was very glad to hear that I was cooperating with the police. You see, he happens to have quite a few friends and acquaintances in the trade of law enforcement, both police and prosecutors . . . you included, Casey."

"I know this Emeritus? Who is he?"

"A law student at Yale. He came up here after a few years serving as District Attorney in the South. Obviously, he's the oldest ex-Magister of the Silver Cross."

"His name, Priest."

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't do any damage to tell you that." He sighed. "The current Emeritus of the Order of the Silver Cross is District Attorney Arthur Branch."

"_What_?"

"Why do you think he wanted you as an ADA? I told him I had a good student for him to look at as a future prospect. I imagine that cut down on your career options, but I hear you've been quite successful at this career."

"That's how you knew about Taft."

"Of course. That's also how I knew about your first case, and how I knew about the occasion you were assaulted. Branch has been passing me information since the day you were transferred from white-collar crime to the minefield of Special Victims Unit."

"Do you know my weight, while we're at it?"

"From looking at you, I'd guess around 135, but that's not my business."


	5. The Emeritus: Novak

**Thanks to:**

_Readers_ – Unless I'm really off, about one hundred to a hundred and fifty hits came in over the past three or four days. I'm definitely sorry I had to wait so long, but I needed to make sure I had the chapters to tide me over if work gets too tough . . .

_Abbie Carmichael_ – Oh, it'll definitely get better. I'll give you a hint: there are many old characters just itching for a rematch. You're going to see quite a few known faces.

_Sam _– I definitely will.

_Vickie Hickman_ – I liked Branch, so I had to think of a way to add him in correctly, without making it seem too set up . . .

_Nanino _– Glad you liked the humor.

If someone had told Casey that her District Attorney was the head official of a knightly order that had existed since the seventeenth century, she would have laughed. Well . . . if anyone but Oliver Priest had told her. Though she had little reason to trust him – no more than she had to trust anyone else, anyway – she knew instinctively that, for all his quirks, Priest had lied maybe twice in his life, and probably regretted it.

"How did I not know?"

"You weren't looking for it," he replied. "Had you known that there was an Order of the Silver Cross – remembered that there was – you probably would have assumed that no one close to you would be a member. Besides, Branch doesn't wear the silver cross."

"He doesn't?"

"No. The Emeritus has a quite different piece of identification."

"Which is?"

"That, Casey," he said quite seriously, "I can't tell you. Look for it yourself."

She had grown resigned, on the drive over here, that there were some things Priest was still intent on keeping from her until she needed to know. He had assured her that it wasn't personal, but that Branch had told him to hand out information slowly, and only if he really thought it was needed. So, naturally, she had suggested they talk to Branch.

"Not even a hint?"

"Not even a hint, my dear Miss Novak."

"What is it with you, your damn orders, and secrecy? It's almost like – "

"We didn't want anyone to know we existed? We don't. Casey, why do you think the entire Order was in kittens when I told them I wanted to put you up as a candidate for membership? We don't like more people knowing than need to know."

"Never thought I'd hear you talk about 'not knowing.'"

"I never thought I'd meet an ADA who studied under me."

"_Touché_."

The elevator doors opened on her floor; Priest filed out after her, fingering the Swiss cross pendant on his necklace. She noticed that he had a very odd expression on his face, almost like he was going to trial – an expression she saw on half the defendants that went into the New York courthouse. She guessed he'd done something very wrong.

"Hello, Lisa."

"Ah, Casey," Branch's secretary said. "He said he was expecting someone."

"Hmm. Can you tell him I'm out here?"

Lisa called Branch, told him there were two visitors outside, and the D.A. himself appeared a minute later, beckoning them into his office. Once both of them were in, he closed and locked the door, made sure all the other doors were likewise locked, and then disconnected the phone line. Finally, he smiled at Priest and gestured to the armchairs.

"Been a few years since I've seen you, Oliver."

"I wish it was in happier circumstances, Arthur."

"We do our best."

"Too true." Priest sat down. "Casey wants to know about the Order."

"Oh, he hasn't told you?" Arthur now rounded on her. "I'd imagine he'd jump at the chance to tell one of his former students what his college days were like."

"Well, I wanted to make sure I had a go-ahead."

"You have it."

"Actually, Arthur," Casey interrupted, "I want to hear it from you."

She knew that was the one missing link in this thing that so far, had proved to be no better than a farce; if Arthur told her about the Order, it confirmed him as the Emeritus and it meant she could use him as a source. If not, she wasn't sure if she could trust Priest to be her only source on this case. Besides, what if he was killed?

"I told him exactly what to tell you, Casey."

"Which means?"

"Everything he's told you, about the Order's rules, membership, he could have told you anyway. I wouldn't have been able to do anything against him; the Order only has rules for revealing secrets to its enemies. But in general, before information is cleared to a third party, the Order member has to talk to the Emeritus. That's our procedure."

"I see. Well, we need a list of all of your Magisters, Arthur."

"Ah, I've got that for you already," he replied, handing her a sheaf of papers with names, addresses, and telephone numbers on them. "The ones in the New York area are highlighted. When I found out about the silver cross, I had to be ready."

"Why _are _you up, Arthur?"

"Late night yesterday," Branch replied, which was perfectly true. "I don't have the cushy job you do, Oliver. We District Attorneys have our all-nighters."

"You think I don't?"

Priest smiled as he fingered his cross; then he looked down, and Casey saw his eyes point directly at Arthur's left hand. She bent down to retrieve her briefcase and sent a quick glance in that direction; sure enough, his ring finger had a silver ring, larger than Priest's or the victim's, on it, and she was sure she'd never seen it before.

"The end of the Order."

"I'm sorry?"

"Since the first Emeritus, Angelo d'Scorza, was given the marks of a member of the Order in 1507, the Order of the Silver Cross has always talked about its end. It was brought into existence to oppose, though not destroy, the Order of the Black Rose . . . and though it would die by the Black Rose's hands in the end, that death would be the end of the Order of the Black Rose as well. That was the theory, anyway."

"How _do _you know this?"

"Looked in the esoteric history books. You should try it sometime, Casey."

"I'm sure I assigned that one when I taught you. _Philosophical Societies, 1500-1985, _by William Coltrane. I use an edition two numbers later, but that's my book."

"It had the Order in it?"

"Oh, yes, but not the fact that it still existed. You see, Angelo d'Scorza was a big believer in hiding in plain sight . . . so he documented the Order of the Silver Cross' rise as a knightly order, when in reality it was only a conversational group of philosophers. I remember telling you to pay special attention to the page on him."

"Angelo d'Scorza? Didn't he – "

"Suggest free speech three hundred years before the American Revolution? Yes." Arthur chuckled. "He was a real revolutionary for his time. Thrown out of Milan, Rome, and Florence for his beliefs. He ended up in the company of Erasmus in Rotterdam, and that is where the first meeting of the Order was held – one Italian and seven Dutchmen."

Casey was really looking for the punchline now, and it seemed that she hadn't even heard the joke yet. She was going to have to try a case that had to do with groups older than her last name, two men who she thought she knew and belonged to one, and a victim apparently killed by the other. This was going to be a very long day.


	6. Old Times and Whiskey: Novak

"You're sure you don't want to come up with me?"

"Very sure, Professor," she said, but she smiled. "I don't usually drink."

"Oh, a 'nightcap' is not always meant in the alcoholic sense, Casey. But if you haven't noticed, we haven't gotten a chance to talk quietly since this entire thing started, and my perception is that you, right now, have absolutely nothing to do. I want to know how you've been doing since you left my class. Therefore, you can come up to my room, drop the ADA routine for fifteen minutes, and I can ask a few questions."

"Or I could say no."

"Casey, if humans said no to everything, I would be out of a job."

"Professor, I really should be getting back – "

"Stop making me feel old, Casey. I've only got ten years leading you. Just call me Oliver, or Priest, or whatever else you want, but _please_, don't call me Professor."

"All right," she acknowledged and laughed, "Oliver."

"There, that's better. Now, what say you?"

"I'm not going up with you, Oliver."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"You know why you will?"

"Why?"

"Because you can't deny that you are irresistibly attracted by the prospect of baiting me into a long philosophical discussion which you think I can't win, and I'll pull some card out of my sleeve that I didn't ever teach you so I can tell you later that college only gets you there half the way. Am I right, or – God forbid – am I wrong?"

"You win, Oliver. But only fifteen minutes."

"That's all I require."

Actually, their long, philosophical discussion lasted well over fifteen minutes, and this time, Priest did have to pull out a hidden card he'd never taught her; something about Socrates' gadfly metaphor. Casey had finally acquiesced to one shot of whiskey, which was completely out of her league – as far as he remembered – but she'd taken it well, and it had loosened her tongue enough that he'd gotten her to talk fluidly. He had taken the same amount, but he had the feeling that his mind was dulled a great deal more than hers.

"It's been quite stimulating, Professor," Casey said, smiling. "You always knew how to make someone feel like a true philosopher."

"Do you ask questions, Casey?"

"What kind?"

"Like why we're here, who we are, who was here before us."

"I don't ask them that often," she said and put her glass down, "but every once in a while this job demands more questions than what I thought when I got into it."

"I sometimes find myself saying the same thing."

"Your term for philosophy was 'the science of asking questions,' Oliver."

"True enough." He smiled. "I'm glad you remember."

"I remember most of what you said."

He noticed that Casey's mouth hung open after she stopped talking, and that the second button on her shirt had come undone at some point during their conversation. In retrospect, perhaps she hadn't taken the whiskey as well as he'd thought.

"Casey, are you all right?"

"A bit warm in here, but I'm okay."

"If you say so." He glanced at her again and had the profound impression that she was becoming uncomfortable here. "Do you want to go outside, Casey?"

"No."

"I'm beginning to get a feeling of discomfort here."

"That," Casey replied, "is because I just shared a whiskey with my philosophy professor, who tried to make a pass at me over the telephone seven hours ago."

"It's already seven o'clock?"

"Well, you did say you were . . . ahem, 'partial' to redheads."

"I am," he replied. "I've always liked red hair. It's commonly thought that it's unlucky – which is another thing you might remember from my class. Judas Iscariot was red-haired. The Celts, on the other hand, equated red hair with fairies."

"Is this going into the Sir Gawain speech?"

"It was going to, before you ruined it."

Casey laughed, probably more loudly than she usually did. Priest realized he'd been right about her resistance to alcohol – namely, that it was nonexistent. He wondered if the stress of the last few hours had driven her to take the drink. That was probable.

"So, did it work?"

"What, making the pass? Oliver, you taught me. You can't really expect me to be too receptive to advances from one of my former college professors."

"Is that the only reason?"

"Why?"

"Well, there's the Will and Ariel Durant case."

"I don't remember hearing about this in class."

"I saved it in case I needed it." He laughed, put his glass down, and looked her in the eye. "Will Durant was a college professor who fell in love with one of his students, a sixteen-year-old named Ida Kaufman. He called her Ariel – no idea why – and they ran away to be married. They had always wanted to die together, but she fell ill while he was away, and he didn't know. She died without him knowing, and he died two weeks after, still unaware of his wife's death."

"A happy ending, then."

"For that story, anyway."

"Oliver . . . there's a few problems with that story. First, I'm thirty-four. Second, I'm not your student anymore. And third, I really don't feel like being named after the Little Mermaid." She waved the glass of whiskey around; now Priest was sure she was drunk. "So if it's all right with you, I'll be going now."

She turned and promptly tripped and fell.

Priest walked over to her prone form and crouched down. Her eyes were dulled by the effect of the alcohol; he supposed this hotel served stronger whiskey than he was used to, or her, for that matter. He heard her breathing slow down to the regular rhythm that marked sleeping, and chuckled in disbelief. Casey had had a very hard day.

"Up you go, girl . . . you'll thank me when you wake up."

He managed to lift her onto the bed without waking her up and left his spare card and a glass of water with two pills for headaches near it. Then, as he covered her with the sheets, he noticed the red hair falling over her face. He stroked it away, and impulsively left a kiss on her forehead. He silently wished her sweet dreams as he closed the door.


	7. An Old Friend: Priest

"I know you're in there, goddamn it!"

Priest rapped on the door a few more times. Forty minutes of walking had brought him to this nondescript apartment door, and five minutes of waiting had brought no one to it. He worried about Casey with every minute he left her alone, but he had the feeling that waking her up wouldn't be a good idea. She was clearly in a state.

Hard feelings . . . he'd make it up to her somehow.

That is, if he didn't get arrested for: a) disturbing the peace, b) harassment, c) assault and battery, which was if the door did _not _open, or d) all of the above. He rapped on the door a few more times, harder, and laid his ear against the door to listen, but he heard as much as he usually did after the first day of a new class in philosophy.

"Please open the door."

"I was waiting for you to say that."

The door finally clicked open, and a black-haired woman poked her head out. She had beautiful brown eyes and a good shade of tanned skin; to Priest, the only thing that kept her from being perfect was her cleft chin. But otherwise, former Assistant District Attorney Abigail "Abbie" Carmichael was a vision even in her pajamas.

"Oliver, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Have you seen the news?"

"So a silver cross showed up on a dead body. So what?"

"Did it say anything about the card?"

"What card?"

"It had a card," he said, shaking with anger, "with the black rose on it, and the words 'Magisters beware.' Abbie, _we need to talk._ This is serious."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"That's what I'll tell your folks at your funeral."

"Oliver, I asked you to leave me alone a long time ago."

"Trust me, you weren't my first choice," he said. "But Tom Moreau died from cancer, Branch can't talk to me too much, and the Magisters in New York are not going to listen to me without one of their own on my side!"

"Have Branch arrange the meetings."

"Haven't you been listening, damn it? _I'm cut off_, Abbie. I can't talk to the rest of the Order. The only reason I'm even here is because there's no chance they'd think you were an Order member – especially after what I heard about you two years ago."

"Just _what _did you hear about me two years ago?"

"Something about a torrid affair with the likes of Edmund North?"

"How the hell did you find out about that?"

"I have my sources."

"Oliver – " She glared at him, and bit her lip. "Come in."

"Thank you."

She led him into the apartment and pointed the chairs out to him. He noticed her movements were slower and less nimble than the Abbie Carmichael he remembered, and wondered for a moment what the cause was, with that drive he usually had to want to know everything. He sat down and waited until she asked if he wanted coffee – which he refused; his mind was still slightly clouded from the whiskey – and sat down in front.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Quite honestly? Get the Order back together, and out."

"Oliver, I don't have the pull for that."

"Neither do I. But Branch will back you up, and if we're lucky, the Magisters will be out of here within a business day or two. You know we can arrange fast transport."

"Oliver, I _can't _do it."

"Abbie, that's not what you would have said when I knew you."

"When you knew me," she said, practically spitting the words in his face, "I was an idiot. I've learned since then. I'm not getting myself involved in the Order. I think my silver cross is probably contributing to the pollution in the New York sewage system."

"But you never renounced your commitment."

"Of course I did! Oliver, I told Branch to strike me off the list! If you look at that list he gave you – which I _know _he did – I'm not on it!"

"You're still wearing the ring."

He pointed at her left ring finger. The silver ring of a Magister gleamed on it in the emerging sunlight. Abbie looked down at it, then, with a frown and a disgusted face, took it off and put it in his hands.

"Not anymore."

"Is this all, Abbie?"

"What do you mean, is it all? Of course, it's all. Go, Oliver. I don't want to see you here again, at least not if it's on Order business."

"Abbie – "

"Go."

Priest looked down. For a moment he'd been so sure that Abbie would have helped him, would have wanted to help . . . where was her old spirit, her old fire, that had blazed so powerfully? He'd known her, oh, yes; he knew every intimate nuance of her as well as she knew them herself! When he had been her Guardian, she had been willing to do anything to further the Order's goals.

He stood, sadly.

For a moment, Abbie seemed contrite, but he hadn't expected that to last. Abbie had always believed in her first choice of emotion – a laudable trait, always, even if she opposed him with it. She pointed at the door. He nodded slowly and walked to it.

"Oh, and Oliver?"

"What?"

"Don't call."

She turned away as he turned the doorknob; he heard her footsteps going all the way down the corridor. Scarcely another moment had passed; he was standing there, with his hand on the doorknob, unsure of what to do, what to say, that would make her see the truth . . . and then he heard her scream.

Goddamn it!

At least Abbie had the presence of mind to let fellow Magisters know about her emergency prevention program – in the form of a Glock 17. He rushed into the kitchen, opened the drawer she had pointed out to him on buying the apartment, and took the gun out, then felt his heart rate slow. For some reason, the cold metal against his hand always forced him to be calm. He took slow steps and looked into each room, peeking inside. She screamed again, and now that he was closer, he heard moans – as if a hand had been placed over her mouth. The bedroom, of course. Poetic justice.

He rushed in and shot twice at the first target he saw.

**Author's Note:**

This is likely one of the few times I'll make a double post in chapters. I felt it was necessary because of my short hiatus from writing, and it would help me get back on hurrying up the chapters. Right now, just so you guys see where I'm coming from, I'm on chapter seventeen.

Also, I would like to ask readers to please supply me with comments on the length of these chapters. If you feel they're too long, I'll gladly shorten them – right now each one is four pages on double spaced, 12 point Times New Roman – or if you think they're too short, I'll see how I can lengthen them. Both would be kind of difficult, because I make each chapter a single unit in and of itself, but I could easily work for the reader's benefit here.

Nothing else to add, thanks. Enjoy!


	8. Revenge Shall Come: Benson

Olivia hadn't expected to have another murder on her hands so soon, but she had been the only one at SVU when the call had come in. A former ADA had been attacked in her apartment, and a guest of hers had shot the assailant in self-defense. If she had known the two involved were Abbie Carmichael and Professor Oliver Priest, she would have driven with much more haste to the murder site.

She knocked on the door and opened it.

When the door did finally open a crack, however, it wasn't Abbie looking back at her – instead, Priest, looking supremely apologetic, opened the door to let her in.

"Who's here?"

"Crime Scene Unit got here about ten minutes ago."

Olivia had expected to see a very destroyed scene – but what she found was Abbie sitting on her couch, wearing a pair of pajama pants with an oddly-matched T-shirt, drinking a very tall glass of water. As soon as Priest allowed her in, he closed the door behind her, checked the lock, and went to comfort her.

"Professor, I have to take your statement."

"Can that be done later, Detective Benson?"

"Once I finish with the crime scene," she acknowledged. "If it helps you, you can come in at any point to look at it."

"We haven't touched it."

"I wasn't suggesting that."

"Did you call Casey?"

"She should be here soon."

Priest's eyebrows rose – Olivia supposed he was surprised enough, and saved the fact that Casey had searched his room about ten times after he'd left her "asleep." Then she had _had _to drink the pills Priest left, because the whiskey had given her a very bad hangover. Casey had finished it off by telling her she'd be there in fifteen minutes.

Olivia had hung the phone up and laughed out loud.

Now she pulled on her latex gloves as she reached Abbie's bedroom. Though she would have expected it to be mangled, or at least have a vase broken, the only damage done to the room was the blood on the walls and the sheets. The shots must have struck arteries, she guessed, as she carefully stepped into the room.

"Detective?"

"Yeah, María?"

"The murder weapon." María Andujar, one of the few from CSU actually trained to work with the Special Victims Unit, handed Olivia a plastic bag containing a Glock 17 and marked as a CSU find. "You want to take a look?"

"Yeah, thanks. When will you be finished?"

"Maybe another twenty minutes."

Olivia crouched down and looked at the dead body. He certainly had dressed for the job; he was wearing a balaclava and nondescript, beat-up clothing. The only obvious show that he had been there to commit a felony was the lock on the window, jammed open somehow from the outside. Well, that and the two bullet holes in the chest. If she remembered her anatomy, she had guessed right; an artery _had _been punctured.

"Any identification on him?"

"None we could find," María replied. "We were ready to bag him."

"Well, don't let me stop you. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment."

Olivia thanked María silently and left the room to find Casey and Priest now both trying to comfort Abbie. The only sign that she was still alive and non-comatose was that she huddled closer to the professor – for warmth, probably – and reacted to his words.

"Detective, do you need my statement now?"

"Can you give it?"

"Yes."

"Then what happened?"

"I was standing at the door here, turning the doorknob," Priest replied, "about to leave. Then I heard Abbie scream. I knew there was a gun in the apartment. I'm trained in firearms – I opened the third drawer from the left over in the kitchen. I think I left it open. I knew the gun was inside, I grabbed it, and I began stepping down the corridor."

"All right. Did you hear anything?"

"Yes. Just as I was passing the second door there"–he pointed out the door to the bathroom–"I heard Abbie scream again, and then I heard her moaning, as if somebody had pressed a hand or a glove over her mouth."

"How do you know this?"

"I've heard the sound before."

"Then what did you do?"

"I entered the bedroom, I looked to my side, I saw someone tearing off Abbie's pajama shirt"–Abbie pressed herself closer against him; he winced–"and he had a gun in his other hand. I shot him twice. I didn't expect to hit his chest."

"Abbie–"

"Don't even try it, Olivia," Casey cut in. "She's not responding."

"I doubt she would be," Priest added. "She was very nearly killed."

"We should probably take her to a hospital."

"No."

Both Casey and Olivia did a double take at that one. Priest was holding Abbie protectively, her head against his shoulder, as she left tear marks all over his jacket. But his tone had been nothing short of confidently forceful.

"What do you mean, no?"

"A hospital's not safe enough. The Order of the Black Rose doesn't give up if the target survives the first strike. They can find her anywhere."

"We'll put a cop on them."

"I don't mean to malign law enforcement officials, but your average officer's equipment is nothing compared to what the Order can use. I'd be very surprised if some Order member didn't try using the old doctor disguise within three hours of Abbie being in the hospital. They're tenacious, Detective Benson."

"What about FBI?"

"You'd have to be very specific."

"Oliver," Casey said suddenly, "didn't you tell me about an FBI agent who had some experience with the Order? He worked with you in Chicago?"

"Why, yes . . . Special Agent Edgar Ness."

"Do you still keep in touch with him?"

"I'll make the arrangements at once," he said, smiling.

**Author's Notes:**

_Readers _– Again, thanks for reading this last chapter. I'm sorry to say that this story may have to slow down about around chapter seventeen (the one I'm almost finishing) because of so many things I have to do. I'll try to make do so that I can still post one chapter every three days.

_Abbie Carmichael_ – Since I explained it to her already, I'd take this opportunity to tell the rest of you that you should feel free to tell me if you're lost. I'll be perfectly glad to send you explanations and background on the characters I'm introducing and on the Order.

_FreudFreak_ – Dan Brown . . . I didn't intend to base it off of his stuff, and though I like some of his style I see it as too simplistic for my taste. Nevertheless, I do appreciate the praise, though I did consciously do my best to include some resemblance between Oliver and Langdon. I guess you can't have everything.

_Vickie Hickman_ – She's not the last old face to show up, trust me.


	9. Second Victim: Munch

Munch tried not to look at the victim. The same method as the last one. Nude, a silver cross and ring, and a white card with the black rose on it. Except that this time, the card's opposite side didn't say _Magisters beware._ It said _Only once shall you escape._

He wished Priest would hurry up and find out who was doing this.

Of course, he knew very well that it wasn't the professor's fault – the Order, from what he remembered of college, was very much into finishing what it started – but he still wished it would magically appear to him, the answer, and he would be able to solve these murders and put another killer behind bars. He wished it was that simple.

His cell phone rang. He picked it up.

"Who is this?"

"_Olivia. I just came from Abbie's apartment._"

"Abbie? Carmichael?"

"_Yes. She was attacked – lucky for her Priest was in the house. The assailant's dead, two shots to the main arteries. Blood everywhere._"

"Damn. He was a good shot."

"_He lies about it,_" Olivia replied, "_but yes. How is it over there_?"

"Not looking too good, Olivia . . ."

He drew out the card and looked at the black rose symbol, then turned it over, finding new meaning in the writing on the back, as though the fine lettering now revealed some nuance he had missed the last time. _Only once shall you escape . . ._

"Olivia, where's Abbie now?"

"_The hospital. We've got an FBI agent watching her._"

"And Priest?"

"_He and Casey are heading your way._"

"Good. I think both of them are in danger."

Munch tapped a CSU officer on the back and told him nicely to hurry it up. For the moment, they hadn't lost the shock effect – but soon enough somebody with a camera and a goddamned bloodhound's nose was going to come in and ruin it all. He made sure his cell phone was nearby as he went to the parking lot to wait for Priest and Casey.

They got there about ten minutes after he showed up.

He immediately got the sense that something was wrong between them. He had heard about Casey falling "asleep" in Priest's room, but something told him that she had not deigned to reveal that to him just yet. No, he sensed that there was something coming between them that had nothing to do with her drinking whiskey . . . something having to do with the attack on Abbie. That was it – she thought he'd gotten too close.

"Munch, how is it?"

"Ugly."

"As bad as the last one?"

"About the same. They're on watch to see if they can find white oleander nearby."

"They won't," Priest said quickly. "Well, not the Order's reserve anyway. They always kept that very much a secret. I . . . well . . ."

That was all Munch got out of him.

Even when they returned to the station and reviewed the reports – old hat to them by now – nothing more came out of Priest, though Munch's instincts failed him for once. He wasn't sure if the man was just afraid of saying anything in front of Casey, or if he really was thinking everything through. Both seemed like things he would do.

"Oliver?"

"Hmm, Casey?" He looked up, slightly smiling. "What is it?"

"Who do you think will be the next target?"

"Quite frankly, Casey? If they can't get to Abbie, they'll try for me. But whereas Abbie is right now in the hospital being watched by an FBI agent, I have a licensed Glock in a belt holster. It's fine by me if I have to shoot more of them."

"Don't say that."

"What, about shooting them? I meant it."

"Exactly." She frowned. "Oliver, if the Order is as powerful as you say it is, you are likely to be indicted for manslaughter as it is. Don't make statements that could be understood as premeditated murder. I don't want to see you in jail for murder one."

"Why, Casey, I never imagined you cared so much for my safety."

"You're our consultant," she replied, her voice edgy, "which means it's a stain on the whole department and office if you end up being prosecuted. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Very good. Now, where are Olivia, Elliot and Fin?"

Munch knew Olivia was at the medical examiner's, getting Oliver's victim on the examination table. Elliot was probably checking out the ID they had on the first victim. Fin? Fin had disappeared into the streets the only night he'd been here. He said he'd be back soon with information . . . which Munch dearly hoped was true.

"They'll be around, Casey."

"That's not what I asked. I want to know where they are."

"Detective Benson," Priest interrupted, "will most likely be with Dr. Warner on the assailant I shot. I assume you received an identification for your first victim by now? Detective Stabler will probably be tracking that. And from what you've told me, I expect Detective Tutuola – that is his last name, right? – is right now going undercover."

"How the hell did you figure that out?"

"Casey, you're beginning to make me think I never taught you anything. Common sense, remember? All the greatest philosophers had it, in varying degrees, granted."

"Thales of Miletus didn't."

"That's because he was mostly a geometrician."

"Ben Franklin?"

"A scientist."

"_Angelo d'Scorza_?" she rejoined. "What about Ferdinand Henstridge? Edward Black? Dietrich Röhm? Filippo Sforza? Martin Charles Callahan?"

"They had far more common sense than any of their time."

"They would have survived longer if they hadn't founded the Order."

"But," Priest cut in, "like this nation's forefathers, Casey, they were willing to die for the beliefs they fought to realize. What it is with us Americans and only appreciating the honor of our own people, I'll never know . . . but they were enlightened, for the time in which they lived, and they were instrumental to the history of man."

"Oliver, their Order is going to die here."

"Wrong," he replied; Munch picked up a tinge of anger. "The Order of the Silver Cross, Casey, isn't an American-only institution. Even if every Magister within the four corners dies"–he snapped his hand on the table–"the world has thousands more."

**Author's Thanks:**

_Readers_ – Another one hundred or two hundred of you, I think, added your counts; that makes me feel very happy about writing this story. It should only climb higher as we go on.

_Abbie Carmichael_ – Well, the chapters from here on out should get more straightforward.

_Nanino_ – Well, yes, one every three days (which means I'll be able to post for a month or so if I don't finish any new ones) . . . anyway, the romance will come, you'll have to wait for its development because I didn't want to make it obvious which characters would get together. It shouldn't be too long, though.


	10. The Dead Don't Speak: Tutuola

Fin knew his usual job didn't include ignoring the need for a court order, but then his usual job often had him wearing a suit and coat. In his hooded sweatshirt, though, he was slightly impervious from the world of law. At least he knew that he had a warrant for this – but that was comfortably in Elliot Stabler's hands. He had better not be heard.

He finished picking the door lock and shouldered it open.

Normally, Crime Scene or the detectives would have gone over it, including every piece of minutiae that could lead them to a possible case study of the victim. But it was only one detective for a reason: Cragen felt they would have to concentrate their human resources at home. Fin was the only one with extensive undercover experience, so it had been his job to obtain an identification for the victim. Gabrielle Morton had recently been a student of NYU, until she'd graduated _summa cum laude _in philosophy. Fin wondered if that had had anything to do with the choice of the victim.

Her roommate's cooperation had been secured, but Fin still had to open the lock on his own – a man with a room key would look odd here. She snuck him in when she left for a party, and he was now extracting his flashlight to look around, closing the door behind him. The dormitory was definitely in good condition – his own apartment was much messier than this. The roommate had told him to check the blue bedroom and the bookcases. That was his first priority; as he put on his latex gloves, he directed the light onto the shelves. The titles were names he knew, though he didn't care for many of them: he saw _Paradise Lost _and _Shakespeare_ among them, as well as a book on Ayn Rand and her philosophy. Fin smiled to himself and decided that the books weren't going to do.

Gabrielle's bedroom was even tidier and neater, with the sheets perfectly made. It was literally as if she had expected to simply come back in the day and do it all again. Fin shuddered to even think that her spirit might right now be trying to touch the sheets; she had missed a couple of spots. He got the impression that this young woman had never allowed anything but total neatness in her life.

"Good night, Detective Tutuola."

Fin didn't immediately turn around, but he drew his gun as he whirled. He would have expected the female voice originate from a tall, heavyset woman wearing beat-up clothing and pointing a large handgun at him. The vision that came in front of him, on the other hand, was nothing of those except tall; she was dressed conservatively, her handgun – as he could see – made quite an indentation in her pocket, and she was quite svelte.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Special Agent Mariana Valdez. Your captain gave me clearance to work with you on the Black Rose case – though he didn't tell me he'd kept it from you."

"Well, I'm undercover, aren't I? Why are you trying to blow it for me?"

"As I said," she replied without missing a beat, "I wasn't aware. But your captain wanted to retire your current assignment as it is, so I understand you're not undercover."

Fin screwed up his face and tried not to fire off an expletive for having an FBI agent interrupt him on his undercover assignment at one o'clock in the goddamn morning – given that a former ADA had spent the night in a hospital, Elliot, Olivia and Munch had been trying to pursue other leads for the past twelve hours or so, Casey was desperately getting them a court order to search the apartment of Daniel Brander (the man Priest had shot), and Priest was trying to gather the Order together. He especially felt for Elliot, Munch, and Priest, who were right now going for twenty-four hours – of course, Casey, Cragen, and Branch weren't doing much better, but there was something about one day.

"Are you going to help, Agent?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Agent Valdez looked around the room quickly – he recognized the gaze from a special course in evidence collection he'd taken a few weeks ago. It was a way of quickly ascertaining how much possible evidence there could be. Finally, she lit on the rack of photo frames. She took one and inspected it, then handed it to him.

"Had you looked at them yet?"

"No."

"Notice anything?"

Fin glanced at it. It showed Gabrielle with four friends, three female and one male – and all had the same piece of jewelry around their neck, namely, a Swiss cross necklace like the one they'd found on Gabrielle's corpse. Not one for subtlety, Fin broke open the backing – he'd had to do it before, or he wouldn't have known the useful little joint in the corner of some photo frames that ripped open easily – and looked at the backing.

"My God."

The backing had a message on it: _Lies shall be punished. _But what scared Fin was not the message, it was the fact that it was written in a rust-red liquid that looked very much like dried blood. He grasped it carefully by the corner and handed it to Mariana.

"Any ideas, Detective?"

"This means they've been here. Any other photos that show her wearing the cross around her neck? Any others that show her friends?"

"One more."

She handed him another frame; he broke it open and checked the back. This time, she had been photographed with her roommate – who also appeared in the other picture – but Gabrielle wasn't wearing the silver cross. Her roommate, however, was. Valdez's gaze hit the photograph hard; she artfully pushed back a few locks of reddish-brown hair and frowned. Then she looked at the back, and Fin almost had a heart attack.

_To hunt, one must know how to flush the prey. _In blood.

He realized what it meant, and he quickly hit "redial" on his cell phone and hoped dearly that college girls these days kept their cellular phones on at all times, meanwhile pointing the roommate's bedroom out to Agent Valdez.

"_Who is this_?"

"It's Detective Tutuola."

"_Hi_!_ How are you_?"

"I'm fine," he said, cursing politeness. "Listen, Kelly, where are you?"

"_I'm coming back from the party. I'll be there in a half-hour._"

"Are there any drugstores near where you are right now?"

"_There's__ a couple of them, yeah, why_?"

"Tell me the name of one."

"_Oh, I know this one. It's the Irish Pharmacy, they have a couple here._"

"Get in there, and stay there. I'm going to send a car to pick you up."

"_Why_?"

"Just get in there, _now_, Kelly!"

He hung up before he could hear her response and sprinted out of the dormitory, already dialing 911, Agent Valdez right on his footsteps.

**Author's Notes:**

_Readers_ - Sorry for taking so long to update the story. I did do my best to get on it early, but my school hasn't been too kind with work, so I've been completely swamped. I'll try to get back on track (next update will be tomorrow night, as it should have been).

_Abbie -_ Thanks, again, for the praise.


	11. Interview With the Witness: Benson

**Note: **I don't like to jinx things, but I think I can safely expect to hand in a new chapter every three or four days as I used to. I finally was able to transfer the story folder onto one of my own CDs and move it onto my frequently-used computer, from where I'm writing right now. I'm very glad that this finally happened, and I'm also glad that I've got a clear idea of how the story will end - trust me, we've got at least ten more chapters left before we get there - but don't expect me to stop with just this story.

"Detective Benson?"

"Yes," Olivia said, flashing her badge. "You're Edgar Ness?"

"That would be me."

She had expected Eliot Ness's grandson to look a bit more heroic, maybe be tall, at least. But the fact was that his reputation preceded him by far, at least from what she heard from Priest and his partner on the case, Agent Valdez. He had become famous after "solving" the murders in Chicago – for which Priest had given him credit – and actually, Olivia remembered reading about him in a few law enforcement circulars.

"Pleasure to meet you."

"Same to you, Agent Ness."

"I'm afraid she's asleep at the moment, but I'll allow you in."

Ness let her in, and Olivia braced herself – but she remembered that Abbie hadn't been physically attacked so much as psychologically. She had entertained the possibility of Brander having been an advance scout, to scare them, but she couldn't bring herself to think that even this Order – which seemed to be composed entirely of sons of bitches – would let a resource go. Nonetheless, Abbie looked like an angel asleep. It had been a hard twenty or so hours for them all, and looking at Abbie made Olivia recover a bit.

"Will she wake up soon?"

"Very much so. I've been sitting here for six hours or so."

"Six _hours_?"

"My grandfather once sat for twice that on a stakeout," he replied. "Don't get me wrong, I'm nothing compared to him, but if I can't match his wait time, I don't deserve to be in the damned family. Besides, I wasn't bored . . . all the time, anyway."

"What did you do, read?"

"Actually, yes. My reading material was quite varied."

And he nonchalantly handed her a sheaf of papers that Olivia recognized as the SVU personnel files on Elliot, Munch, Fin, the captain, Doctor Huang, Casey – and _her._ She eyed him, but he had returned to looking at Abbie, and she caught a very protective whiff from him; woe betide he who came anywhere near Abbie without his permission.

"What the hell were you doing with our files?"

"Making sure you can be trusted," he replied. "I trust Captain Cragen – my father and he were friends at one point – but I had to make sure. The Order of the Black Rose is a very difficult case to deal with. But don't despair, Detective – I didn't find anything that would get any of you taken off, except perhaps exhaustion, if you don't sleep."

"Do you need to go to the bathroom, Agent Ness?"

"Now that I think about it, I really need to. Can you take over for me?"

"Sure thing."

"If she wakes up, you'll have to wait for me to interview her."

"Why?"

"This is a joint case now," he said as he stood and gave her his chair. "We're not thinking of taking the case away from you, but again, the Order can be a pain in the ass. Chicago Police couldn't outgun, outclass, outthink, outnumber, or outrun them. It takes specialized personnel, and the FBI has a task force dedicated to it."

"It sounds like you're cutting us out."

"The last thing we think of doing."

"Why does that sound like bull to me?"

"Detective Benson," Ness said exasperatedly, "I know you're not exactly trusting of FBI agents. I wouldn't be either – hell, I'm _not_, except for Mariana. But the truth is, ADA Carmichael isn't the first to owe Oliver Priest something. He saved Mariana's life as well, and it's thanks to him that I'm leading the task force against the Order. If he tells me to quietly funnel my men in here and provide you with unlimited support, I'll do it."

"Well . . ." Olivia really couldn't muster up anything. "Thank you."

"Thought so. I'll be right back."

She sat down as soon as Ness left, and realized that there was a lot she still didn't know about Oliver Priest; she wondered if Ness would be willing to share any details, but it sounded like trying that was a dead end. She contented herself with leafing through her file to make sure nothing she didn't know about had been put in there. Thankfully, she felt no temptation to look through anyone else's files – a perfect time to find out where Munch had been disappearing to on slow days – but hers was pristine, except for those two suspects she had shot. The two black spots on her perfect record.

"Liv?"

Olivia looked up. The smoky voice could have only belonged to Abbie – in fact, Abbie was right now looking at her with eyes dulled from some psychological calming agent. Olivia had a few names in mind for that, but all of them happened to be longer than the Declaration of Independence. The former New York ADA looked like she had been through part of hell – bruises, burns, and cuts were missing to complete it.

"It's me, Abbie."

"Where's Oliver? Or the agent?"

"The agent's taking a dump, and I have no idea where Priest is."

"He's trying to – "

"Get them back together, yes, Abbie."

"He won't manage it," Abbie whispered. "They're spread too thin. I tried an hour after the murder happened, but no one replied . . . they'll try to hide underground."

"Where, Abbie?"

"That's up to them. Olivia?"

"Yes."

"Tell Oliver . . . I want my ring back."

"You mean the one on your nightstand?"

Olivia jumped. Ness was standing at the room door, hands in his pockets, smiling at them. Abbie glanced towards the nightstand but could only feebly move her arm half the distance; feeling a bit sorry for her, Olivia took the ring and fit it onto her finger.

"Abbie, you know the process."

"Won't make it any easier, Olivia. It wasn't much fun the first time."

"I know," she replied, "but I wanted to save time, Abbie. Agent Ness?"

"Miss Carmichael, what happened yesterday at about eight o'clock AM?"

As Abbie began to speak, Olivia wrote notes without any consciousness of the voice from the hospital bed. She was aware that was she was hearing was a relapse of the hell that was the uncertain moment – the second or so where you had no idea what would happen to you. A normal person might have been jumpy or nervous for some time. But Abbie was far stronger than most in terms of emotional power. For her, that moment had compressed into it a terror a hundred times greater than anything she would ever feel.

Her body might have been unblemished, but her mind would always have scars.

**Author's Thanks:**

_Readers _- Thanks for continuing to help me break the key numbers - getting over 1,500 hits makes me feel very good about the ability of this story to attract new readers, whether they have the time to review or not. I'm sure I'm not the only busy visitor to this site.

_Abbie - _Sorry for making you wait so long . . . and Mariana was really just a counterpoint to Fin, to tell you the truth. She comes out a few more times, but I hope to develop her character in another story.

_Vickie_ - Thanks for the compliments.


	12. Induction: Novak

**Author's Apology: **I'm sorry for not being able to hand this stuff in earlier - really sorry, anyway - but my parents are sleeping in the room where the Internet-capable computer is. I'll do my best to hand the next few chapters in quickly, because this is going to get interesting.

Casey tried not to think.

As usual, she found it very difficult. Not only was Gabrielle Morton dead, but all of Fin's help hadn't done her roommate any good – she lay dead in the morgue as well, beside Gabrielle and beside the unidentified girl Munch had covered yesterday afternoon. It was four in the morning. She had been going for twenty-eight hours and had gotten no sleep – not counting the five minutes she faked in Oliver's hotel room. He and Olivia hadn't done much better, and Elliot and John were also in serious danger of collapsing.

She idly wondered if he was all right. He had disappeared since Abbie had been in the hospital, ostensibly to combine the Order once again. Since he had vanished, she had found the worry in the back of her mind growing, until she had little choice but to stand at this window, staring out, trying to understand what he could be doing right now.

"Casey?"

"Hello, Oliver," she said without turning. "How's it going?"

"Your detectives are sleeping. I told the captain it was safe to let them go until morning. After all, the Order made its first point, if somewhat forcefully."

"What about you?" She smiled. "Or me?"

"Well, I have a warm bed to share, if it comes to that."

"It was a question, Oliver, not a proposal."

"Then I would say it would be all right for you to sleep. I may be a bit more able to function for long periods of time than most humans, but if I go for another two hours I'll faint right where I'm standing. The Order isn't meeting until the day after tomorrow, so I have some time off from my duties. Would you at least share a car with me?"

"Are you going to make another pass at me?"

"If the inside of a 2001 Passat makes you look even more beautiful, I might think about it. Otherwise, you can consider yourself quite safe from me."

"Oliver, you just did it again."

"Well, since I wasn't going to do it in the car . . ."

Ten minutes later, Casey had to admit that Oliver Priest's real gift was for talking of any kind – he must have been the kind of kid that loved to run his mouth. But she also needed someone to talk to, and the fact that her chosen "someone" responded to her voice was quite stimulating. Their conversation didn't stop all the way down the elevator from her office into the 2001 Passat whose inside, Casey thought, had no effect on her beauty one way or another – though it certainly did to Priest.

"What was that about Occam?"

"I'm just making the point, Casey, that it's not always supposed to mean what it does. The Razor is far more complicated than its words."

"That contradicts the Razor itself, though."

"That's why Occam was a philosopher, not a scientist, not a writer, and not a mathematician. Philosophers can be hypocrites and get away with it."

"Lucky bastards," she replied, chuckling. "Make a right."

"Yes, ma'am," he said and turned the car. "I trust you remember the Code."

"The Philosopher's Code?"

"Indeed. First Law of the Philosopher?"

"A Philosopher is one who asks the same questions that have been asked since the beginning of time, and willingly relinquishes title and recognition for doing so."

"Good. Second Law?"

"The true Philosopher's ultimate goal is to understand the world and the universe in its entirety by whatever means necessary and available to him or her."

"Third Law?"

"All laws relating to philosophy are bull."

"Which one is the most important?"

"If I said the Third Law," Casey replied, laughing, "you would tell me that all laws are just as unimportant to the true spirit of the philosopher."

"Very good, Miss Novak. You pass your review."

"This was a _test_?"

"Oh, you wish."

"A left."

He waited for the green light to make the left and kept on going. Casey noticed the odd way the light struck his silver ring; she had never noticed it particularly before, but then she had only known him as a professor, never as a human being. She wondered if he was only putting on a façade, or if he really did look at her as something more than his student. From what little she knew of him . . . well, he was always true to his feelings.

"Oliver, why did you want me to be part of the Order?"

"Because I liked the way you talked," he replied at once. "I don't know if you've lost it since then – to me, at least, you haven't, and I'd know – but when you studied with me, I sensed the true spirit of a philosopher in you. Remember what I said. You got my message, better than most did. What was the little-known Theorem of Philosophy?"

"A philosopher is a servant to society, not a controller of it."

"Exactly."

"I never knew what that meant, really."

"Neither did I, actually, until you came along. Your class was my first Princeton class, and it made me realize that I was made to teach. I've been teaching for fifteen years now, Casey. Though I can't gainsay some of your fellows for the choices they made – to become doctors, or judges, or other positions where you could be called a 'controller of society,' their merits lay there. They had the philosopher's spirit, but not the ability all philosophers have had . . . the ability to give up the limelight for the quiet shade."

"And you think I've done that?"

"Voluntarily. When have you ever sought fame, Casey? Your duel with Oliver Taft was not even known outside of New York until I phoned the newspapers. The assault on a New York ADA was barely heard in Princeton until I handed the _Times _clipping to my students one day. I don't see any indication that you're a glory hound."

"You'd be wrong."

"Perhaps." He turned onto her street. "But I knew you."

"You only taught me four years, Oliver."

"And four years is enough to recognize a kindred spirit, Casey. In fact . . . if I was thirty-two when I last saw you, I would say that twelve years is quite enough."

"For what?"

He drew out a box from his breast pocket and, glancing all around, handed it to her. Unsure what she would find inside, she opened it, and gasped. The Swiss cross and the silver ring stood out in the light, striking them just as mysteriously as the ring on his finger and the necklace he wore. She looked up at him, words failing her.

"Welcome to the Order of the Silver Cross, Casey."

**Thanks:**

_Readers_ - Thanks for helping me reach 1,800. I love knowing that people actually do read my stories.

_Abbie - _Thanks for your praise, again.


	13. A Father's Message: Cragen

At first, Cragen hadn't believed that Edgar Ness had really come to New York. But if Olivia was telling him that Edgar was here, Cragen had to trust her. He'd last seen Edgar when he was a baby in his mother's arms, just before John James Ness had seen fit to raid a major smuggling operation and get himself shot in the process. If he could have been there for Edgar, he would have been, but the young man had done just fine without his father – at least to all outward appearances.

He checked the register.

The nurse at the desk looked up at him and smiled, as if she got this all the time. Cragen dully wondered if Olivia would have disobeyed him to come back to the hospital.

"Who are you looking for, sir?"

"Abbie Carmichael."

"Room 1126, down the hall, second door on the left."

He followed the directions and found himself face to face with Edgar. Like Olivia had told him over the phone, Edgar looked more like his mother than like the Ness side of his blood – where Eliot and John James had looked like investigative reporters with guns, Edgar looked like he belonged in an office. His mousy brown hair and dull eyes had no heroic power in them, and his body wasn't particularly muscular – or tall.

"Captain Cragen?"

"Sorry I haven't gotten around to seeing you."

"That's all right," Edgar said, waving his hand. "Come in. She's asleep."

Cragen entered the room after Edgar. Abbie was indeed lying asleep in the bed, her black hair falling across her face with every breath she took. Cragen began to wonder how badly she would have reacted to the attack, knowing her as he once had.

"She'll be all right," Edgar said, reading his mind. "Just a bit overwhelmed."

"Anyone would be."

"True enough, Captain. How is the case on your end?"

"Right now, my cops are sleeping in the station and my ADA and my consultant are both at her apartment, setting up improvised alarms."

"What about you?"

"I haven't gotten twenty-four hours in yet."

"You should still sleep, Captain," Edgar answered. "I find that even four hours of sleep can be a potent contribution to restore your energy for some time."

"I can't leave SVU alone," he protested. "There has to be – "

"Yes, I know, I wasn't questioning the decision."

Edgar looked through the window, and Cragen was reminded of a short stakeout he had once had with John James on one of the few joint cases the FBI and the NYPD had done back then. It had been a long case; the Ness family insisted, since their most famous member had become an Untouchable, on doing things their way. In this case, the Ness way had been to watch for about an hour before charging in with guns blazing.

That had changed when cops had had to rest their trigger fingers.

Edgar had obviously heard many stories about his father and Don Cragen; for one, the guns he wore were the same .38 revolvers that Cragen and John Ness had favored in the day; for another, when he looked about the window, the same look as John James came into his eyes – and misted them over, actually. None of the Ness bloodline ever had any patience for being passive; Cragen guessed that was why Edgar had jumped at the chance to duel with the Order again, the chance to shoot back at the bastards.

"Three victims so far, Edgar."

"I heard. Believe me, if we have anything to say about it, it will _not _go beyond that. I'll transfer some more from the task force over here over the next six hours."

"Can you make it any shorter?"

"I can try for four. That's all I can do, Captain."

"Thanks."

Edgar nodded and went back to looking out the window with his glazed eyes. Cragen wondered dully if John had taught him that before he'd decided to get a bullet in his chest. Or if maybe his mother had told him all the stories, and Edgar had picked right up on how to act like his father. He was proving a professional at it so far.

"How has Oliver been so far?"

"One hell of an intriguing help," Cragen replied. "There's no denying he's trying to get close to our ADA, but at the same time, if it helps our case – "

"Hang on. Oliver fell in love with Casey Novak?"

"Define 'falling in love,' Edgar."

"It's been years"–Edgar shrugged as if it wasn't his place to say–"in Oliver's mind, anyway. I think he fell in love with her while she studied under him. The old Will and Ariel Durant story my father used to tell when they asked him how he married a girl ten years younger than him. Oliver knows it too."

"Again, as long as he helps – "

"Oh, he will, Captain. Oliver is a man of his word, and if you have Casey Novak, he will definitely hang around to keep an eye on her." Edgar smiled. "It's one of his few flaws; get a woman into his mind, and he'll be the first Lancelot to her Guinevere."

The reference to the Arthurian legends lighted something up in Cragen's mind, but not enough for him to say anything. Instead, he turned and looked at Abbie again. As Olivia had told him, she looked so peaceful that he felt as if some of the energy he had so uselessly expended had come back to him again. In the light of realization, he knew he had to say something that John had told him to tell Edgar . . . when Edgar had grown up, whether he had followed in the family business or not.

"Edgar?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Your father wanted me to tell you something when I saw you as an adult. He said it to me the night he died, just before his heart stopped."

"My mother told me."

"She knew?"

"No," Edgar replied, "she told me you had to tell me. There are several reasons I came here when I heard about the murders, Captain. The foremost one was because of the professor, but I came to New York to hear these words as well."

"Edgar, your father didn't know what waited for him."

"I know that much." Suddenly the agent's eyes were blazing. "My father died from the family disease – overconfidence. Every FBI agent knows about it since we took over the Untouchables' functions. _What did he say_?"

"His last words were a quote."

"From whom?"

"Samuel Johnson," Cragen said and smiled wistfully. "He said, 'It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives.' And then he said, 'Damn it, Don, this hurts like hell.'"

**Thanks to:**

_Readers_ - Getting close to 2,000 hits!

_PrincessLena _- Thanks for submitting all those reviews, Princess. I'm also glad to know I'm not alone in thinking Casey's an okay character (not necessarily my favorite, but among them).

_Vickie _- Thanks for the praise, once again.

_VampirePrincess86_ - You asked for it.


	14. Preparations for the Night: Priest

"Are you sure you know where the bathroom is?"

"Casey, I see in the dark better than you do. Yes."

She scowled at him, turned on the light beside her, and then turned it off. He had the distinct impression that he had gotten much more than he had bargained for when he had agreed to spend the night on the couch, in case the Order sent another 'advance man.'

"I'm locking my bedroom door."

"You do that." A sudden thought came to him. "What if he's in there?"

"Your shoulders can still ram down a door from where I'm standing."

"Understood."

Why Casey was willing to ruin a perfectly good door was beyond him; he hoped she had home insurance. He would have rather given her his hotel bed and slept on the floor, and he had made the comment, but Casey was not going to give him even the mere benefit of the doubt, so this was the most conservative arrangement they could make.

"You have the gun?"

"Yes, I do." Priest lifted the Glock. "Where the hell did you buy this?"

"Ithaca Guns," she replied. "I have a license, but I really don't like shooting."

"Important kind of thing to have, yeah."

He checked that the gun was loaded, then turned off the safety, and took his first full glance at Casey since they'd taken the ride in his car. She had chosen to wear pink pajamas, which he thought were exceedingly cute for her age, but they framed her red hair perfectly, and gave her an almost elfin look when she moved. She checked all the windows again – though neither of them could see anything besides the odd cat – and she turned back to him, her arms tightly folded. He braced himself as best he could.

"Oliver, do you know what I'm about to say to you?"

"What?"

"You were my favorite professor, and I still like you very much," she said, "but if you try to come near me before I wake up, I will have to hurt you. I'm warning you, you weren't the only one to take classes in self-defense."

"I swear I won't. How do you like your eggs?"

"Why?"

"Well, I usually wake up earlier than the rest of the household by about two hours, so I thought I could get a head start on a good breakfast."

"I don't _eat _eggs," she replied. "Look in the fridge."

He did and found a great deal of fruit, bread, vegetables, and some canned foods, but yes, she had absolutely no eggs anywhere in the refrigerator.

"My cooking ability thankfully stretches beyond that."

"I'm sure your philosopher's spirit will find some combination my tired old brain hasn't even thought up yet." She smiled and came closer to him. "Good night, Oliver."

She kissed him on the cheek.

For one moment, he felt an electric current pass between them, and he realized it was because he knew exactly what was going to happen next. Casey suddenly tightened around him as if both her arms had seized up. But Casey was not prone to sudden cramps, as far as he knew. He held her close and tried to keep his grip gentle.

"Casey, what's the matter?"

"That's just it, Oliver," she said against the curve of his shoulder. "I don't know. It's everything that's happened, it's nothing, I have no idea what's happening to me."

"Hmm," he whispered to her hair. "That happens sometimes."

"Don't talk about it like that," she complained. "You make it sound like it's _normal_ to not know why you act a certain way."

"It is."

"No, it's not, Oliver!"

"It most definitely is," he replied. "Why do you think there are philosophers among us, Casey? Philosophy explains the unexplainable, answers the unanswerable, tells us what we can't tell ourselves. It brings reason to the chaotic little souls we are."

"God, Oliver, you make it sound like a class."

"It is something to learn, I suppose."

"Well . . ." She rose again. "That's enough contact for now. Good night, Oliver."

He couldn't help noticing that she kissed him on the cheek again before she left for her room. He heard the lock click and smiled to himself as he opened a volume of philosophical treatises that he always kept in the glove compartment of his Passat. He had no idea what time it was when he finally fell asleep, and he didn't much care, because he slept very well; but he knew that when he woke up, it was eight o'clock in the morning, and the bedroom lock was still closed – so either Casey was asleep, kidnapped, or dead.

Knowing there were only three major possibilities calmed him down.

He sang a few old songs to himself – in his horrible bass – as he cut up fruit and bread, including "That Old Black Magic" and "Mack the Knife," and he had no idea why he picked those two – well, the latter because he happened to be using one hell of a thick knife. He had no idea how Casey used it to cut her food; he supposed there was another one hidden in the drawers, but his left-handed brain was quite smitten with this one.

"You _do _know that one's not for fruit, right?"

"Actually," he said, grabbing his arm to stabilize it, "I did."

"Then why are you using it?"

"Because I'm lazy and I didn't feel like looking around in the other drawers."

Her hand appeared on his shoulder, pushing a thinner, longer knife into his grip. He thanked her under his breath and finished cutting up the fruit, then realized he had missed asking one extremely important question for both of them.

"When the hell did you wake up?"

"Just now," she replied. "I saw your bedtime reading."

"It was interesting."

"Yes, certainly _Philosophical Works Through the Centuries_ is the thing to get you to sleep like a bear in winter," she joked. "So, any clue as to what the hell _this_ is?" she then added, prodding her fingers at the plate of bread and fruit he had already finished.

"The Priest Fruit Salad, available for a limited time only."

"Which is?"

"The next hour I'm spending in here until you kick me out for tasting it."

As it turned out, the Priest Fruit Salad was a hit. With a small waffle instead of the crumbling bread he'd originally tried, the cut-up fruit had been put in geometrically correct slices (a tribute to Pythagoras and Descartes). After fifteen leisurely minutes, he realized suddenly that neither of them was at the moment dressed to go outside.

"Ah, Casey? Something tells me you're going to be late to work today."

"Are we overstating our own charms, Oliver?"

"No, stating accurately our lack of decent clothing, my dear."

**Thanks to:**

_Readers - _Thanks for helping me break 2,000 (and in a big way). With luck, in the twenty-one days I have before I run out of chapters to post, I'll finish this story _and _start on the sequel. I'm working on it every chance I get.

_PrincessLena - _Yeah, not too many people are willing to acknowledge that it does make a difference.

_A proud geekfreak _- I make my money on starting and ending, not on the middle. And yes, chapter two is one of my favorites.


	15. Sleepless in Manhattan: Stabler

**Clarification: **This chapter takes place around the same time as the first part of the last one; I'm not skipping a day in time, God forbid.

"Olivia, what the heck are you doing here?"

"The same as you," she replied. "I couldn't sleep."

"Actually, Munch was snoring too loudly, in my case."

"Yeah, right."

Elliot shrugged and sat at his habitual chair, opposite Olivia. He wondered – hell, he seemed to be doing that a lot these past two days – why this entire string of events had started. Why three girls had had to die, one ADA be attacked, and why another ADA was right now letting a man she barely knew into her apartment for _protection._

"Worried about Casey too, huh?"

"I don't trust Priest."

"No one does," Olivia said, "except for her. Elliot, we're all trained to distrust the people we don't know. The only reason she even trusts him is because he taught her."

"Great basis. Remember the Baudelaire?"

That was their nickname for the French literature professor who had raped one of his students – an older case, back when Olivia's hair was deep brown, Monique Jeffries had been with them, and Brian Cassidy had been one of the SVU detectives.

"One big difference. Priest doesn't ask for trust."

"Don't we all?"

"Some of us don't, Elliot. Priest isn't asking for us to trust him; he knows we won't no matter how much he asks, so it's better not to ask in the first place. Besides, I don't see any reason for his revealing any other colors now. He's got to know we'd catch him before he could get away from New York City."

"Not if he's part of the Black Rose thing."

"Elliot, it's four-thirty in the morning. Pardon me if I don't feel like formulating a conspiracy theory against Casey, but the professor's beginning to grow on me."

"Hmm, I didn't say he was a bad person. I just – "

"I know, you don't want to see Casey hurt."

Elliot remained silent. Yes, that was part of it, but another part was telling him that he was way in over his head. He was a detective, he was prepared for this kind of work, but this looked like the kind of the thing the FBI's Major Operations Unit normally took under its wing, not stuff for Special Victims Unit detectives. These had no indication of being sexually-based offenses, as their mission statement said, so why the hell was the case still here? Because it had started here, that was why, and it was going to end here.

He wondered if all cases were like that.

But he'd have had to say no. Few, in fact, of his cases, stayed here just because they had handled them first. Otherwise, they'd never have any joint cases, and they would still be at the stage where no policeman within Manhattan would come near them.

"What is that noise?"

"That," Elliot said when he heard something like a train wreck, "is Munch."

"Munch snores _that _loudly? No wonder he couldn't keep a marriage afloat."

Stabler laughed. In the squad room, it was hard to think about the fact that there was a group of people who were out for blood in the city. It was always difficult for them to believe in that kind of thing when they were sitting in a secure place. Safe.

"Aren't you going to sleep yet, El?"

"I can wait a few more minutes."

"For what?"

"Well, Olivia," he said, smiling, "it's been a long time since we just sat down and talked, have you realized that?"

"You still need to – "

"Another five minutes."

"Elliot – "

"If you don't go to sleep, I don't either."

Olivia raised an eyebrow, but Elliot simply rested his legs on his desk and folded his arms, being careful not to fall out of the chair – the crash would probably wake up all creation for a mile. He wondered if he was actually _going _to fall asleep at all. Maybe the Mills case had made him build up resistance to going so much time without sleep.

"At least no cops are in on this one."

"Don't jinx it, you idiot," she said and threw a ball of paper at him.

Despite his large frame, he spun the chair out of the way of the ball, and smiled as he scooped it up and threw it right back at her. She dropped her head down just in time to avoid the paper, then looked up with a wide grin on her face.

"Liv, being honest, what _do _you think about it?"

"About what? The case?"

"About the case, Priest, the Orders, all of it, Liv."

"Quite honestly, I have no idea what to think. Elliot, this case is weird even for _us_. We shouldn't be handling this. This is Edgar Ness's turf, not ours."

"But our ADA has the case."

"And it's making her a target," Olivia replied. "I'd be surprised if the phone doesn't ring any moment now to tell us she's been killed or hurt. Frankly, Elliot, I'm glad there's at least one of us she trusts enough to keep in her apartment."

"Priest isn't _one of us_."

"But he's invested in it, more than any of us, and he cares about Casey."

"Says he."

"I know, I felt the same way, Elliot, but he could have escaped after the attack on Abbie. She was meant to die, wasn't she? Couldn't he have lured her into a false sense of security, let Brander do the work, and escape?"

"Maybe we're supposed to trust him."

"Great job he's doing there," she remarked. "Like I said, he's not asking for any of us to trust him. He's doing what he wants to do, and while that happens to include the protection of our ADA, I'd rather believe he was on our side."

"I'm not saying – "

"Elliot, if you don't trust him, you're going to be watching his every move. Calm down and look at our suspects. They're much scarier, if you ask me."

"If he was a bit more straight with us – "

"You think he doesn't want to be? He would tell Casey the entire history of the Order if he was allowed to. Your problem is you've been in this unit for nearly ten years and you still don't understand it when it happens to others."

"Understand what?"

"Falling in love, Elliot."

**Thanks to:**

_Readers - _Thanks for continuing to read this story. I'd love to see some new people review, as well - I'm mostly getting return reviews from people. There's nothing wrong with that, but I'd like to hear what _all _of you have to say if at all possible.

_Nanino _- Yeah, I did my best to make it obvious, but apparently I screwed up. My bad.

_VampirePrincess86 - _Well, I know a lot of marriages where the man has twelve or more years on the woman (at least five). Besides, that just shows that Casey's not shallow.

_Butterfly heaven _- I'll read your stuff when I can get around to it, I don't get much online time these days.

_Princess Lena _- Thanks for the praise. Yes, definitely, humor is an important part of all my writing, since otherwise it would be way too serious (though it is a kind of dry, intellectual humor that I often set up incorrectly). I'm definitely working on the sequel as soon as I finish this one (I'm on chapter twenty-two and I'm aiming for twenty-five) in hopes of bringing Priest to a larger community. I'll definitely do my best to make the sequel just as or more interesting. Bad spelling and grammar are not exactly things that drive me crazy; I've encountered them way too many times to worry about them.


	16. Psychobabble: Ness

Edgar checked his gun – to make sure it was loaded and the safety was on – and motioned to Mariana and Agent Spicer to come in. He assigned them patrol routes in and around the room, checked on ADA Carmichael's vital signs one last time, and left the two agents to it. He had barely walked one step out of the room when he heard a voice.

"Hello again, Edgar."

"Oliver," he replied. "I thought you were with the other ADA."

"I just dropped her off at work," he replied. "She's got her own protective detail now, and they certainly shoot better than I do. It's best if I tag along with you."

"Won't the SVU need you on the case?"

"Maybe originally. Right now, we're all fresh out of leads as far as the Order goes – so being a consultant is fried for the moment. I thought I could help you."

"You don't even know where I'm going."

"No, but I know _you_, Edgar, and I know where you would usually go under these circumstances. I also know that you're going where few have gone before, and it'd do you good to have a man like me who knows the lay of the land, you understand me?"

"Oliver, I'm not placing you in any danger. You know that."

"Fine. I'll travel in the Passat; when it gets too hot, you can ask me to leave."

"It's too hot as it is. Go back to the station, ask what you can help on."

"At least can I know where you're going?"

"I'm off to visit the New York field office. Maybe they can tell me stuff the SVU can't – homicides that would have been the unit's before it was made."

"Good luck with that, then."

"Thanks, Oliver."

Edgar would have made better progress had he not stopped to talk to Oliver, but he didn't complain; at ten in the morning, it was usual to find at least three agents on an early lunch break. As luck would have it, he met the one man he had been planning to see all along; Doctor George Huang, tying up his loose ends in the FBI personnel office, was getting a midmorning snack when Edgar showed up in the informal "Mess Hall."

"Doctor Huang! I'm glad to have caught you!"

"Special Agent Edgar Ness, right?" the doctor replied. "I believe you wanted to get me as a consultant for that task force you're heading."

"Yeah, well, I need your help now."

"What's up?"

"The SVU was first organized in '92 or '93, right?" Huang nodded. "I want to know about cases before that, cases that would have gone to the Unit if it had existed. The FBI nowadays keeps records on all organized crime; I don't have the clearance to get them from the New York office in time, but you do."

"You mean the Black Rose murders."

"Ye – How'd you know?"

"I assumed," he replied with a shrug, "given the current rash of killings and the one attack we've got on our hands as it is. I've been looking into them myself, and I can tell you, I'm ninety percent sure that Daniel Brander did everything up to the attack on ADA Carmichael. After that, somebody else took over."

"Because he was dead."

"Yes, definitely. Brander was a lowlife – he was a thug, he was a soldier. He was not the kind of guy the Order would have gone to for a high-profile job until he had some simple work under his belt. He started out small; killing low-level members of the Order of the Silver Cross, making sure the Black Rose made its presence known. That was in '91, as far as I remember. Brander moved up in rank because of his work there."

"But now?"

"He outlived his usefulness, to be cliché. The Order recognized the pattern in his murders about the same time as we did, and decided he wouldn't be good to keep around in case we got wise. I'd guess they brought in someone from another country to keep things going strong – probably another one with his own distinctive style, though."

"To keep the force guessing."

"Hmm. I'm surprised you haven't asked me how they killed him."

"I worked that out for myself."

"How's that?"

"Well, I figured that they had to know Priest would be there, and that Carmichael had access to a gun. It didn't seem right to sacrifice manpower on a risky murder like that when the guy could have continued to make lesser attacks and racked up a better success rate. I guessed it was an attempt to bump him off, and I guess I was right, wasn't I?"

"Perfectly, Agent Ness. Further, you guessed a component I hadn't – the Order does things by a cold formula. Risk versus effectiveness; they have unlimited money and access to resources, so cost is no issue. If the risk outweighs the effectiveness for the boss and inner circle of the Order, the measures don't continue; if it's the other way around, they take it, even if it means killing off their operative."

"Real bastards."

"That's the Order of the Black Rose."

Ness remained silent for a moment – and in that moment, his cell phone rang. The number was Mariana's, but she should have been in the hospital at the time. From where was she calling? He picked it up quickly and muttered a greeting.

"_They just let the ADA go._"

"What?"

"_They can't legally keep her in here – she's perfectly fine, and they gave her calming agents. The only reason she was even in here was for observation, Edgar._"

"That's true. Where are you now?"

"_We're going to pick up Priest; I want to put them and Novak in a safe house to wait it all out. They're all Order members; it'll be a matter of time until they are attacked again. Captain Cragen's getting it smoothed over with the police brass._"

"Give me a minute." He turned to Huang. "What d'you think?"

"I think that, quite frankly, your partner's reasoning is bull. If the Order of the Black Rose wanted Professor Priest, Casey, or ADA Carmichael dead by now, trust me, they definitely would be." Then he shrugged. "But putting them in a safe house is still a smart idea, as long as you don't restrict them too much. Don't give the impression that they know more than they really do, or the Order will get suspicious."

"Heard that?"

"_I never trusted Huang much, but I'll take him up on that. I'll call you once we get to the safe house, all right, Edgar_?"

"Sure."

He hung up and looked at Doctor Huang, and a flame suddenly lit in the back of his mind. Before he remembered to say "enjoy your meal," he was speeding outside.

**Thanks to:**

_Readers - _Thanks for helping break 2,500!

_PrincessLena _- Hmm, true. I hope to elucidate more on that situation as we go on.

_VampirePrincess86_ - Nah . . . I don't want any stuff like that happening (yet, anyway).

_Makoto-47 _- The Order of the Black Rose isn't mine, it has a strange story behind it (if you want it, e-mail me), but the Order of the Silver Cross is. And Priest is based on Teabing, Langdon, and on how I hope to be when I'm older, all rolled into one big snowball. Further, my knowledge of philosophy comes from a lot of books, and I hope to study philosophy and become a professor, like Priest, one day.

_a proud geekfreak _- Thanks.


	17. The Unusual Suspect: Munch

"Tell me again why we're in the station."

"Because," Fin growled, "we don't have any leads, our last suspect is dead, and our consultant is in the process of finding out who the next one should be. I gotta say, man, I really feel like getting my weapon recertification now."

"Not the only one."

Munch fastidiously polished his service handgun. He felt like shooting at a human being – not a feeling that often came into his sweet heart, but today, it was very much an acute need. This case was leading them by the nose, and leading them nowhere, as far as he had been able to tell so far. Priest had disappeared about thirty minutes ago to set up a cover house for Abbie – supposedly, Casey and Priest were also needed there, but both had refused. Stabler was breathing down the FBI's neck on similar murders, and Olivia was trying to get them public records on organizations called the "Order of the Black Rose" in other countries, such as France, where they had to register. So far, no luck.

"What are we supposed to do, then?"

"You know, I've been itching to try out that new database we're supposed to be using to cross-reference suspects. Did they set it up for us, too?"

"I'll check," Fin replied. "Bring your stuff over here."

Munch didn't like computers. They made his job easier, but he had the nagging feeling that someday everything would be slaved to a machine, and human emotion wouldn't factor into crime prevention anymore. For him, and for everyone else who had any sense of the true value of free human expression, that would be hell on Earth.

"Who's first up on the list?"

"Hold up, man, I haven't even entered a word in yet."

Munch looked at him until he scoffed and put in a few words; "female, aged 18-25" for victims, "poison" for "murder weapon," and a few other things that Munch saw in Brander's file and slowly extracted, one by one. The list appeared after fifteen seconds, and slowly expanded until there were close to seventy names, all matching somehow.

"Who's first up?"

"Brian Rose, chemist, North Laboratories, he matches seventy percent."

"Except for the fact that his victims were male, Fin."

Fin only gave him enough of a glance to tell him to shut up, then deleted Rose's profile from the list. He clicked on the next one; this looked promising.

"Charlie Sorenson. He matches everything so far."

"Sorenson," Fin said suddenly, "is serving life without parole in Attica for seven murders. I doubt he's out and about and looking for victims."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Munch muttered.

"Look at this. Diane Moore."

"The Order doesn't use women to do their work."

"Well, they _could _be switching, right?"

Munch nodded; Fin marked her down as a "possible." They spent over two hours cataloguing all of the suspects into the three categories: "likely," "possible," and "no way in hell" – the last one having some of Munch's nomenclature skills while Fin was getting coffee for them. By the time they were done, they had only four likely suspects, twenty or so possible ones, and close to fifty suspects in the last category. Around that time, Casey and Priest appeared, though both from different entrances to the building.

"Where's the captain?"

"In his office," Munch replied. "Where else?"

"What's he doing in there?"

"He's having problems with a bunch of people who want to get _you_"–Fin turned his head towards Priest–"for the murder of Daniel Brander."

"Ah, so I finally have achieved some notoriety."

Munch raised an eyebrow; Priest looked insufferably pleased with himself. As for Casey, she immediately headed off to the captain's office, knocked on the door, and went in. Priest bent down over the files they had gathered – the "likely" category.

"I'd say we can narrow this down."

"How?"

"Two of these guys are from high-income families. Remember, the Order uses poor guys, preferably on fixed income if they can get it."

"Are you sure?"

"Damned sure. The Order doesn't like to change. It always does things its way whether that leads it to predominance or destruction – after all, the Order's tradition is tradition itself. That's why they're against the Order of the Silver Cross."

"The _only_ reason?" Munch said.

"Probably not, but it's the only reason that the Order of the Silver Cross knows. I'm not denying the possibility of some ancient animosity existing for some other reason, but I don't know what that reason could be, and neither does the Emeritus."

"Have you tried to find out?"

"Actually, I have, in the eighties, when I was beginning to teach. But the Orders don't keep good records of their history in the sixteenth century."

Munch stared. They knew everything but the reason why they were opposed to this Order of the Black Rose? Either these guys were very pacifistic, or they were idiots. Munch mentally opted for the latter. Priest, however, didn't seem too fazed by this.

"Well, Detective Munch, I'm sure they _have _the records. But Europe's Order of the Silver Cross has its own ranks, they don't defer to the Emeritus, and they don't allow American intrusion into their historical archives. Probably the reason why none of them was ever murdered, I'd venture the guess."

"Frigging Europeans."

"I wouldn't be so harsh on them, Detective Tutuola. After all, they have their own way of doing things, and hell, the Order over there is much better run."

"That's not what I meant."

Both Priest and Munch raised their left eyebrows at that and went to look at Fin's screen, where there were red dots over a blue-and-white outline atlas of the world.

"What do you mean?"

"Olivia just sent an e-mail from the United Nations Registry. Seems that every European country has an 'Order of the Black Rose' listed somewhere in its archives, and many of them have several chapters registered. The dots mark major ones."

"And why is this important?"

"Because," Priest interrupted, "I suddenly recognize the method used for the last victim. She was killed with white oleander, but she was killed in a dark alley, she was left fully clothed, and the cards had no messages. That's not the American style of the Black Rose – it's the European one. Whoever they brought in – "

"Is from across the pond."

**Thanks to:**

_Readers - _As usual, knowing that someone is interested just makes me want to write. I've got the definite end already!

_PrincessLena _- Anyway . . . there'll be one, trust me. Maybe not when you expect.

_makoto-47 _- Here you go.

_Lizzie9 _- Yeah, that's Oliver for you.


	18. Bashing Down the Door: Tutuola

"Are you sure this is legal?"

"I don't care at this point," Fin remarked, the acid just dripping from his voice. "Just go in when I tell you to, and make sure you don't get your gray-haired ass shot."

"Hmm." Priest grinned. "On your mark."

Damn straight, on his mark. What was it with this professor and never shutting his mouth? Knowing Casey, that was probably what she liked about him, but man! He hadn't stopped talking to Fin about African philosophy the entire ride in the car! Oh, no, it was _not enough_ to take him on a SWAT mission, but he had to listen to him too?

"Agent Valdez?"

"_I'm in position,_" Mariana's alto called. "_Go in when you're ready._"

"All right," Fin said to the SWAT officer next to him, "bash it down."

The door went down after one ramming; Priest filed in after Fin, covering each other's back. Fin even noticed how Priest cut down on the possible firing ranges at him by placing his back against the wall; he wondered if the man had had police training. A door also opened in the far distance, and soon enough Mariana and her squadron were in the building as well. Fin finally put down his gun.

"We're clear?"

"So far."

"Don't leave anything out."

Fin didn't need to tell them that – immediately, everyone started looking around in the likely _and _unlikely places. The evidence was huge; registries for Order members, a list of names, phone numbers and addresses, and a flight ticket for one Ernst Goldbrund, dated two weeks prior – which Priest had assumed had been the preparation time.

"Anything look out of place to you, Priest?"

"I'm no detective," he replied softly. "I can only tell if I knew this place."

"Then why the hell are you here?"

"An extra gun hand never hurts, Detective, and we may find some cryptic stuff."

Fin nodded, though he wasn't facing him, and indicated one of the doors with his head. Mariana headed over to them and tried it; locked; Fin drew his gun again. Beside him, Priest had his own Glock up as well, and Mariana was holding hers behind them.

"Any idea what's in there?"

"Excellent question," Priest responded. "Are we going to find out?"

"Would that be a smart idea?"

Priest replied by putting his Glock in his belt, stepping back against the opposite wall – and charging straight into the door with his left shoulder, and drawing the Glock as it crashed to the ground, blown off its hinges. Cursing under his breath, Fin made sure his safety was off and charged in after him; Mariana, meanwhile, covered them from behind.

"Does he usually do this?"

"He usually does a lot more, actually."

Priest chuckled audibly, but didn't face either of them as he entered the room. Fin thought the man must have been trained for some kind of police work, or else possess a great deal of common sense; he covered his back perfectly, made a cycle of pointing his gun at different points, and – unlike some policemen Fin had worked with – he didn't cover areas that Fin and Mariana already had.

"Are we good?"

"Looks like it," Mariana said.

Priest put down his Glock first; as they looked around the room, Fin realized that he was being an extremely efficient searcher. Though he kept his gun in hand, he looked around the room, pointing at things to take. Fin sent in two of his CSU agents, a SWAT one, and kept close on their tails as they wandered around the room, following Priest's instructions as relayed by either him or Mariana.

"FBI support?"

"My backup's looking outside."

"What do you mean, outside?"

"In case anybody comes in, Detective," she replied, twiddling an earpiece under her feathery hair. "It's called 'advance warning.' Good military tactic."

Fin scowled.

Priest asked for a pair of gloves; he got them soon enough and bent down with a penknife, opening the top of a box. Inside, he pulled out a canister of a whitish-clear liquid, shook it, and watched as bubbles rose about. Then – in another of those strange gestures he sometimes made – he pocketed it, and drew out another.

"White oleander."

"Consistency?" Mariana asked.

"This is for injection – they sometimes coat knives with it. Detective Tutuola, did your medical examiner check for that kind of wound?"

"Yeah, on all three."

"Good." He handed Fin the second canister. "Have her check this against them. It's possible that white oleander is only a main component – the Order's subtler than I'd like to admit, and I thankfully haven't yet become a real target."

Fin wished he'd had telepathy.

As Priest rose, Fin saw a young man, blond and blue-eyed, suddenly stand up as he ripped the top of another box open, a handgun pointing across the room at the professor. Fin and Mariana shot at the same time, both twice, striking him four times, all over the chest. A stray shot went off his gun, but as far as Fin saw, it landed nowhere.

"Priest, all right?"

"Quite."

Fin looked at the canister. It was small, made of glass, clear and black-topped. He suddenly recognized the design, and saw the same look of recognition in Mariana's eyes when he looked up into them – two dark pools, they were.

"This is a narcotics canister."

"You mean they use this stuff to get high?" asked Priest.

"No," Mariana replied, still looking at it. "He means the canister is made especially to prepare an injection. It has the hole drilled into the center, just small enough that you can poke in the needle and stab someone within five seconds."

"_Stab_? Bit strong – for an injection."

Fin heard the pause in his speech, but when he turned, his heart actually sank a few inches. Priest was lying on the ground, his shoulder a mess of blood. Above him – somehow – the blood had come down in the shape of an arrowhead, pointing down at the box against which he slumped. Fin looked at Mariana, put his gun in, and ran to Priest.

"You said you were all right."

"Well, I was," Priest replied, "until all this – bleeding – started."

"Goddamn it. Call 911, Agent Valdez!"

**Thanks to:**

_Readers _- Breaking 3,000 hits, not bad for my first story in here (even if it is a high-traffic area). Thanks to all of you who took the time to read even a single chapter.

_Lizzie9 _- Hmm, I was actually getting worried that I didn't include them all.

_a proud geekfreak_ - Well, I don't know if your second comment was sarcastic, but in that case remember that the Order of the Silver Cross is, first of all, _not _a cult but a _philosophical discussion society_, and that it spans the entire world.


	19. Reactions: Carmichael

"Hey."

"Abbie," replied Oliver, though he didn't look her way. "Nice day outside."

"For those of us who haven't been shot."

"Ah, I'll be all right. Not the first time."

Abbie smiled and sat down beside him. Though she could be submissive, she could also be imperious, and Edgar Ness did not generally argue when a woman told him to start the car and ride to the hospital. She got the sense that Ness really owed Oliver a serious debt, or he wouldn't have done that.

"How's Casey?"

"She hasn't heard, or she'd be down here herself."

"Bit of an extreme response."

"For you, Oliver, she'd probably come down here walking."

"Well . . ."

Oliver spread his (usable) hand, smiling up at her. She dimly noticed that the clear-white shade of the painkiller being pumped into him was very much like the oleander she had seen Special Agent Valdez and Detective Tutuola cataloguing.

"What makes you say that?"

"Oliver, do you honestly think I never talk to my fellow lawyers?"

"You seem to be an antisocial breed, really."

"We are," she said as she punched his good arm, "most of the time. But even we have life-changing experiences, you know. I talked to Casey. She hasn't stopped thinking about you since you got into the state – and I mean that."

"You think so?"

"Oliver, you think you're an ugly old dog, but you tend to look more like a proud old lion," she said and blushed slightly. "I used to think it too, when I studied under you."

"I was young back then."

"No more than you were when you taught Casey."

He grinned and laid his slung arm against his shoulder more comfortably – she guessed there were few positions for him to be comfortable, really. She also wondered why he had insisted on going on an operation that had such a real risk going with it.

"How's Justine?"

"She's all right," Oliver replied. "A few money problems."

"Can't the Order help her?"

"We are. They'll go away."

Abbie smiled at him, but Oliver's smile couldn't have grown any warmer. Though Oliver had always had a policy against being involved with a student, Abbie had learned firsthand that it went out the window the day a student graduated. They'd never shared a bed, and there was no way in hell she had ever thought of a long-term relationship with him, but he was one of the few true gentlemen still remaining in the world.

"Did you talk to McCoy yet?"

"What?"

"I assumed you'd go back to your old first chair," Oliver said, still smiling. "This is a homicide bust, Abbie. Even I know enough about the law to tell you that SVU can't prosecute it. Go talk to McCoy and his new second chair."

"Alex Borgia?"

"Oh, he has _another_ new one. Sorry."

Abbie raised her eyebrows. She guessed Oliver _had _been cut off from New York – not to know that Serena Southerlyn had been fired from the District Attorney's Office amounted to being extremely uninformed, especially when the reporters had talked up a storm about discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and had even stipulated that she had had an affair with a married woman in the Office.

"Go for it."

"I'm not leaving you alone just yet."

"He won't be."

Abbie looked up at the sound of the voice; Casey had just come into the room, her finger sporting the ring of the Order of the Silver Cross, and the Swiss cross pendant an inch or two above her bosom. Oliver raised a bushy graying eyebrow, but only smiled as Casey drew out – with her other arm – a bouquet of pink, white, and red roses.

"What the hell are those, Casey?"

"You don't remember the other time you were shot?"

"Well, yes," he said, his smile widening, "but I expected you would learn that I'm not too fond of flowers. Especially not roses, Casey."

"Well, it's the last multicolor they had."

"Ah, the thought's what counts, I guess," he said. "You didn't bring a card with some strange message on it, too, you did you? Maybe something like . . . uh . . . _Guards up, Magister, complacency is your enemy_?"

"How'd you guess."

"It's opened between your fingers."

"Ah," she said and grinned down at him. "I didn't quite see it."

Oliver only smiled and nodded at Abbie. She felt the ring on her finger, the strong pressure it always exerted – "the burden of the Order," Oliver called it – and noticed that his index finger was on it. Universal language of the Order. _Do as I said._

She said goodbye to Casey and called Jack as soon as she left.

"John James – "

"Jack, it's Abbie."

"Abbie?" His voice suddenly turned four years younger. "Didn't expect to hear your voice again so soon. What are you doing back in the city?"

"Jack, I never left."

"What do you – "

"I just didn't, all right?" she said. "Listen, have you and Branch kept tabs on SVU lately? Their Black Rose murder cases?"

"Yes, we have – "

"I need you to help on them."

"I don't see a reason to," he said, puzzled. "It's an SVU case. As long as it starts there, we've got no reason to go anywhere else – "

"They're short on manpower."

"Can't be that short, or I'd already have been called in for something."

"Jack," she said, exasperation creeping into her voice, "you can say yes, or no. But I need your goddamned help on these homicides. We have a consultant shot in the arm, three victims, and we're no closer to getting the bastards than when we started."

"Abbie," he said jokingly, "did I ever tell you what I liked about you?"

Before he could say it, she hung up and left for his office.

**Thanks to:**

_nanino - _Oh, my guess is you just saw.

_Princess Lena_ - Well, I saw this style used and it was quite successful. I may in the sequel try to focus on a couple of characters, but I'm not staying with one characterany time soon (unless it proves to be better for story reasons).

_a proud geekfreak _- Okay, first: Munch is definitely one of my favorite cast members here, I love his sarcasm and his style (especially in the early episodes). As for the second, whatever your opinion on cults, remember that these are orders - I don't know, I'm an amateur medieval historian, so I'm pretty touchy on how you define an "order." And finally, here's your update.


	20. Crucial Facts: Benson

"We're missing something."

"There's a concept," Munch replied, throwing a paper ball across the room and into the trashcan, then punching his fists in the air. "Certainly never happened before."

"Shut up, John."

Munch shrugged his shoulders, then went back to looking at one of their files. As the hospital had discovered, Priest had been lying about when the bleeding had started – he had deliberately drawn the arrowhead in his blood to point them to the box. But it had been a gold mine; the files inside detailed major criminal operations the Order had tried to run in the tri-state area for the last seven years. Some of them were still ongoing; other ones had been shut down, apparently because of manpower lacking.

"Why the hell would they keep all this in one place?"

"They're distracting us," Munch guessed. "Hiding in plain sight. They hope we'll take the bait, go after these operations, and leave the murders alone."

"Don't they know there're Vice and Robbery departments?"

"They expect there are, probably," Cragen said behind her, "but from what our consultant tells me, and what I pieced together myself, I think the Order wants us to hand it off and go after the killer himself. I'm getting Huang with us as soon as I can."

"Why the hell isn't he here?"

"He still works for the FBI, doesn't he? I guess he had to finish up a few things in order to move completely over to SVU." Cragen grimaced. "I'm really going to love a full-time shrink in the unit. Great for all of our mental health ratings."

"Better than this stuff, Captain," Fin pointed out.

"Good point. How are you doing?"

Olivia stood and walked over to the diagram they'd drawn of all the Order's criminal operations. So far they had forty-nine in Manhattan Island alone, seventeen of which met the requirements for "major criminal operations" status.

"We're no closer to catching the killer."

"Seems to me we've got to make a choice."

When the hell were unexpected arrivals going to stop? Elliot arrived, his coat over his arm and a thick sheaf of papers – another one of those – under it. She guessed the FBI had been willing to open up; after all, the original task force hadn't solved it. Probably they thought it safer to hand it off to local police forces.

"I say we go for the killer."

"With that said," Olivia cut in, "we need backup from the FBI. How's Edgar on getting his men over here?"

"_Edgar_?"

"So I met him," she replied. "Calm down, John."

Munch snickered behind a hand but made no other gesture; Fin tacked on another red – "major" – location on the map, on Seventh Avenue, no less. Olivia began to worry about this whole epidemic. If they took down one location, the killer was likely to disappear; but now that the Order knew they were onto them, it was only a matter of time until they began pulling their operations off-screen.

Olivia's cell phone rang. It was Casey.

"Casey, you all right?"

"_I'm fine. You'll be glad to hear our favorite FBI agent has Goldbrund cornered already, and he's sure as hell not getting away._"

"That fast?"

"_Well, the guy's on the deck of the USS _Intrepid, _so I doubt we're going to run into much resistance to evacuation. I'm trying to get there without blowing my car up._"

"Where's Priest?"

"_In here. He's convinced he can get Goldbrund to give up._"

"Is he crazy?"

"_I know, I know, I told him, Olivia, but the hospital couldn't keep him down, and I'm scared to try it myself. Just cross your fingers when you drive over here._"

"Captain, we have a situation."

"I'll call in the SWAT teams. Set up a negotiation link with Huang, get headsets on everyone you can – and make sure Priest doesn't get himself shot again, or it's going to be a _really _bad day in the tri-state area."

"Gotcha."

Olivia caught the coat Elliot threw her and charged after the rest of the unit, already leaving the building. Though normally the cars would have been split up between the detectives, Fin had already brought the car around to them when they were out on the street; Olivia jumped in without thinking, landing on the left side; Elliot charged in after her, nearly crushing the bottom of the car. The moment they all had their seatbelts, Fin peeled out as fast as they could, Munch putting up the siren.

"Fat lot of good – "

"Well, we're doing this the right way."

Olivia smiled as she dialed Casey's number on her phone. One ring . . . two rings . . . three rings . . . four rings. Finally the call picked up.

"_What is it, Olivia_?"

"Relax, Casey, we're coming."

"_Listen – Jack McCoy's working on a full arrest warrant for Ernst Goldbrund. Don't do anything stupid if you get there before us, all right_?"

"Don't worry about it."

"_I don't think I got through this in our first little talk, Olivia – but Goldbrund is threatening to blow up the _Intrepid. _There's a reason we're so worried._"

"Dead man's switch?"

"_Of course._"

"How many bomb squads have been sent out?"

"_None. The FBI task force includes explosives experts, but they haven't been able to detect a way to disarm Goldbrund just yet._"

"What is it?"

"_A few blocks of C4 together with his switch. Ness is running the whole thing from a helicopter – only a few agents even dared get close._"

"And Priest can solve this?"

"_He thinks he can, anyway. I wish I could tell him differently, Olivia, but the killer wants to talk to him – another thing I forgot to mention – and if he's not there, he'll kill everyone within a few hundred feet, in other words, anywhere near the _Intrepid."

"Why the hell does he want to talk to Priest?"

"_Because Priest didn't only teach me, and Abbie, and Tom Moreau; he also happens to have taught Goldbrund when he was in the US on a student visa. In other words, Goldbrund literally wants to kill his teacher._"

**Thanks to:**

_Readers _- Breaking 3,500 . . . again, not bad.

_a proud geekfreak _- Flowers . . . my favorite.


	21. Perimeter Defense: Ness

**Author's Note: **Guys, I am _so _sorry I didn't get a chance to update before now; you have no idea what it's been like over here. I'm not going to try and excuse myself, not when I've generally delivered, but I've been having a lot of rough patches and my Internet has gone with them, so I had no chance. Work and school have not been amusing either. We're so near the end you should probably be able to taste it!

"Who the hell did you just say was coming?"

"_It's Priest,_" Mariana told him. "_He's with ADA Novak and Carmichael._"

"Goddamn it! Get them away from there!"

His passenger shook his head softly; it was a gesture that had no independent weight, but in him, it was enough for Ness to tell Mariana to allow the two lawyers and Priest through the barricade they'd set up. They'd spent the last hour profiling Goldbrund while he was claiming – in perfect, non-hurried German – that the Order of the Silver Cross was dead, and that there would never be another one as long as he lived. At least that was the translation they'd gotten; Ness was sure that last idiomatic translation had to be wrong, given that Goldbrund was ready to die for the Black Rose.

"_They're dismounting, Edgar._"

"Mariana, just get them away from the site! Now!"

"_I don't have the authority_ – "

"You have mine! Get them off!"

"_You don't understand! They have an SVU arrest warrant for Goldbrund._"

"FBI takes precedence on this. The _Intrepid _is a federal warship."

"_The U.S. Attorney already gave them precedence. I don't know what the hell Jack McCoy and Branch did, but we've been completely cut off from arrest rights._"

"Goddamn it. All right, let me land and we'll deal with it."

They landed five minutes afterwards, at the closest safe point. His passenger dismounted with him and followed him to the makeshift control center they'd built. In one minute, his dream of finally capturing a member of the Order of the Black Rose was gone. He was about to see the _Intrepid _blow up like all Hell broken loose, he was sure.

"Dr. Huang, Agent Spicer, I need you holding the fort here."

"Gotcha," Spicer said. "Go for it, Ness."

Ness drew his handgun; as he set out to find Priest, Novak and Carmichael, he found Mariana beside him, her handgun already aloft. He found the three members of the Order already leaving the 2001 Passat he knew so well – since the FBI had forked over several thousand dollars for the repairs it had needed a year ago.

"Oliver!"

"Hello, Edgar."

Even as he dismounted, Ness trained his gun on him. He knew it was a failed defense; Oliver knew him too well to be afraid of being shot.

"Please lower the gun."

"You know I can't do that."

"We have an arrest warrant."

"Oh, _they _can go." He cocked the hammer. "You're not."

"How are you going to stop me? I'm needed here."

"Mariana, can you put him under arrest?"

"No."

Oliver nodded and shouldered Ness aside as if he were a professor pushing away a student he didn't particularly like; he didn't even look at him as he walked past, Abbie and ADA Novak striding after him with the blue-papered warrant in their hands.

"Agent Spicer, they're heading your way."

"_I know that, but I still can't do anything._"

"So what do we do?"

"_Maybe Priest can actually save our asses here._"

"You think so?"

"_Either way, if he fails or if we do, we die, Ness. If he succeeds or we do, we all live, right? Let's just let him work some of his magic._"

Ness had to admit that "magic" was the only word for Priest's amazing ability to talk his way through members of the Order of the Black Rose. Ernst Goldbrund was smart, but he wasn't anything like the man they'd taken down in Chicago, a much sharper tool from the shed's selection; Herbert Kozlowski had taken them fifteen weeks to track, let alone capture. Goldbrund was going down in less than a week.

"All right, retire the agents."

"_No, that's not what I meant, Ness_ – "

"Do it anyway. If Priest is going to talk to him, they've got to be alone."

"_You really think so_?"

"Well, Agent Spicer, nothing is ever confidential anymore, is it?"

He got a chuckle from Spicer; Mariana laughed as she lowered and holstered her gun. Ness ran back up to the "control center" and pressed a few buttons. Within a few moments, Priest's voice came in loud and clear over the wire he was wearing.

"_Edgar, I'm hearing your breathing._"

"When'd you put it on?"

"_When I was changing to go out of the hospital.__ It was kind of hard with the nurse helping me with the arm, but she finally looked away enough that I stuffed this into my shirt pocket. Quite a handy kind of thing, Edgar."_

"That's why we're the FBI."

"_Let's not talk about the stories, hmm?_"

"Very funny. All right, talk to me. What's around you?"

"_A bunch of fighter planes. They're fueled?_"

"Hell, no."

"_Good enough. That'll help mitigate the explosive damage a bit. Okay, Goldbrund is on the edge of the deck – it's a wonder he doesn't fall into the water. Casey and Abbie have their guns holstered, I have mine stuck in the belt again._"

"You really like having it there, don't you?"

"_As long as it makes me feel safe . . ._"

He heard the sounds of Priest stepping across the deck – almost as if he was trying to find cracks in the hull. Why the hell was he trying to break through the metal?

"_Edgar, send a few agents to look below decks. The explosives aren't on deck._"

"How do you know that?"

"_I served in demolitions in Gulf War I. A warship's hull makes a different sound when it has a bomb stuck under it, trust me._"

"Can you tell me what his system is?"

"_Dead man's switch, Edgar, doesn't get any simpler. He's got all of them wired to his central switch somehow – because he doesn't have wires. My guess is some sort of powerful infrared signal. Maybe some kind of wireless Internet networking._"

"Did you say Internet?"

"_Yes. See if Mariana or Spicer can hack in and disable it._"

"You got it."

"_Well . . . wish me luck._"

**Thanks to:**

_Lizzie9 _- Anyone _can_, it's just a bit of logic tweaking.

_a proud geekfreak _- We'll see about your pants . . .


	22. Suicide by Willpower: Priest

"Ernst, can you put down the switch?"

"You know I can't do that," the other said calmly, though with an impenetrable German accent. "I do, we all die, don't we?"

"Isn't that what you want?"

"Maybe at some point, Professor," Goldbrund replied. "Right now I just want to speak to you. A bit of philosophical discussion. Who are these women with you?"

"ADA Casey Novak and Abbie Carmichael."

"You were always surrounded by beautiful women when I knew you, Professor. I remember that much about you . . . quite the charmer, you were."

"Once, Ernst." Priest tried to keep his voice level. "I'm wiser than that now. I'm older than that now – but like I told you when I taught you, age doesn't matter."

"Tell me, Professor. Why didn't you join us?"

"Join the Black Rose? Ernst, I thought I'd knocked some sense into your thick Germanic head when I taught you! I thought I'd gotten through to the real son of Bertolt Goldbrund! You're going to tell me that you've _never _questioned what the Order's been telling you to do? That you never cared whose lives you're hurting?"

"Not if it is for the good of the Order of the Black Rose."

"Then you're an idiot," Priest declared. "Even those of us who wear the cross, Ernst, have the courage to say when others have been wrong – and more than that, when _we're_ wrong, because that's so much harder. Meanwhile, your Order stumbles along, unable to realize that it's slowly decaying."

"The Order lives."

"Yes, as a dying animal who flails its last lives, Ernst."

"I will not hear such insults!"

"You will, Ernst," Priest said softly. "Because I took enough from your Order already. I will not allow one more victim in your path. Not a single more victim with the mark of the Black Rose. Not a single more life cut down by one of your men."

"_Keep him talking, Oliver. We're getting into his system._"

Priest controlled his natural reflex to nod, but did direct a weak glance towards the explosives – or rather, where he knew they were placed; he remembered his German demolitions schemes from his couple of months in Desert Storm. If the GSG9 wasn't using some radically different placement, the explosives had to be on the sides of the hull and below it, and placed around the deck railing; the main charge was intended to blast everyone on deck to Kingdom Come, but the other parts would do the real damage.

"_Keep him busy._"

"How will you stop all of us?"

"Somehow," he replied, hand reaching for his Glock. "You know as well as I do that a man can stop an army, given the weapons, munitions and cause he needs."

"That was when war was swords to swords, Professor."

"You and your fellow Knights of the Black Rose would like to think so."

"The world, Professor, isn't governed by dreamy idealists like your Knights of the Silver Cross; it's governed by realists who understand the forces at work in the world."

"That's why the Silver Cross never controls society; it serves it."

Ernst's eyes suddenly flashed; for a moment, Priest thought they were about to go flying, but he resisted letting go of the switch. For a moment, he saw the young Ernst's glance, idealistic and eager, in the dulled eyes of a man who had cast away his lofty goals for mere semblances – and felt a powerful stab of pity for this poor man, Despite madness having obviously taken hold of Goldbrund, he could not stop his pity.

"_Oliver, have you stopped talking to him_?"

"Ernst," he said, his voice calmer now, "it's not too late just yet. I hate to say this, but there is forgiveness at the end of the tunnel."

"For me, perhaps – but none for you."

"I'm not lying to you, Ernst. I may be many things, but I don't lie. You know that. You would – I mean, if the Black Rose still informs its agents correctly."

"They do," Goldbrund said proudly. "That is your weakness."

"I like to think of it as a strength."

"Honesty? Again with your fantasy world, Priest. where good wins and evil is always defeated! Has the 'wool been pulled over your eyes' that much?"

"If to believe that there is truth is to be misled, then yes."

"Care to prove it, Professor? Cite one case where 'good' had the ultimate victory. History has never shown that; even if the American Civil War, and the Holocaust, and Bosnia and Herzegovina, were victories of 'good,' evil will keep evolving!"

"And so will we," Priest replied, his tone rising. "And we'll fight back. It's not a matter of one force winning over the other, it's a balance. That's another thing I taught you that you conveniently forgot. Asiatic philosophy, remember?"

"In this world, to speak of balance – "

"Is to be realistic. We're halfway between heaven and hell, Ernst. History has brought us to this point. We can reverse it. I'm begging you, don't do this to yourself, to all of us. Isn't your life worth something to you?"

"Not more than the Order."

"I should have signed your death warrant myself, then, if you're going to be so moronic. Go ahead, blow yourself up. See if I care."

"_Oliver, what the hell are you doing_?"

"I dare you."

"_Oliver _– "

Drawing his Glock with his good arm, he aimed at the one spot he had noticed a weakness emerging. Though Goldbrund had set up a perfect explosive system, the water must have hit part of it; the control, aside from presenting an extremely large target profile, also had a few exposed wires. The bullet smashed into the control device and burrowed into Ernst's hand; he fell, clutching his bloodied hand, screaming in pain.

"_Oliver, what the hell did you do_? _Are you three all right_?"

"Oh, most definitely. Come get the bastard."

"_How'd you get him_?"

"I told you, demolitions in Gulf War I. I know how to make a bomb, and this guy's no expert. He left a few spaces in the watertight casing, and the water seeped in and separated the casing, exposing a few of the wires. Shooting them pretty much disables the whole thing, Edgar, so get your agents working on disarming the other parts."

"_Thanks, Oliver._"

"No, thank _you_, Edgar."

"_For what_?"

"Making me feel young again."

Priest had to share in Edgar's laughter.

**Thanks to:**

_Readers_ - I have no idea what is up with this reset in the hit count of each story, but I'm glad to know that people actually read this every once in a while.

_a proud geekfreak_ - Here you are.

_Lizzie9_ - Yeah, yeah . . . I know, I'm slow.

_Lena_ - Of course, of course.


	23. At Last Together: Novak

"Hello again, Miss Novak."

"Why does this place seem familiar?"

"You had a hangover in it a week ago."

Smiling, Oliver let her in; though she'd expected that calling on him at ten o'clock at night would have found him changing for bed, he was still fully dressed, with the cast still on his arm. Despite having overworked himself with that adventure on the _Intrepid_deck, he thankfully wouldn't have to wear the cast any longer than two weeks, one of which was already up. "God heals and the doctor takes the fee," he had said, "and Ben Franklin had no idea how right he was when he said that."

"Will the arm be all right?"

"Well, the doctor says it should function as it did before. You want whiskey?"

"How about no?" she said, grinning. "White wine might be nice."

"I must be telepathic?"

He took a bottle of zinfandel, two wine glasses, and served both quite deftly with his one arm, then handed one to her, corked the bottle, and took the other in hand. As he smelled the wine, obviously enjoying the scent of fermented grapes, he caught her eye and grinned even more widely than she was.

"Sit down, will you?"

"Oh, I shouldn't stay long."

"You still have work?"

"No," she admitted, "but unless you want me to sleep here . . ."

Priest winked at her and sipped the wine, then took a book from his bedside table and tossed it onto her knee – _Philosophical Societies, 1500-2004,_ by William Coltrane. She took it, looked up at him, and found a Princeton bookmark in it; she then opened it to the page on "d'Scorza, Angelo," as she'd known all along she would.

"I can't take this, Oliver."

"Oh, please. No mush, Casey, just take it."

"This is an expensive book – "

"And I have seven hundred copies on hand thanks to Princeton and the Order. I don't care what you do with it after you take it, but take it, will you?"

"Well – " She was prepared to be stubborn, but she finally put it in her pocket. "All right, Oliver, but I insist on paying you back for the copy."

"You're not my student anymore."

"I'll always feel like it. You taught me a lot in two days."

"If teaching someone makes that person your student, then I guess we're all students, Casey. We're all learning every day, we all expand our knowledge, don't we?"

"What are you saying?"

"I don't know, I guess it's just an old professor's excuse to make another pass at a woman he taught. Or maybe, just maybe, we all learn from the same teacher."

"God?"

"If you want to call It that."

She sat next to him and put her arm around his shoulder, still smiling as she took the last sip of her glass of wine. Though she had thought, when she studied under him, that he was a beautiful man, she now knew that she liked this worn version, a "proud old lion" as Abbie had called him, even better. Maybe because he wasn't her professor now.

"Being a little forward, are we?"

"You want me to be forward?"

"If that's what you want."

"You know, Oliver, I really hate it when you make things too complicated."

Then – knowing he wouldn't be able to resist, given the wine glass in one hand and the cast covering the other – she pressed her lips to his. Maybe it was the wine in her own system making her tipsy, or maybe he just looked particularly lovable by the lamplight, or maybe a falling star fell just now and Oliver wished she would shut up and kiss him already. She didn't know what it was, but more than that, she didn't _care_.

She held the kiss until she thought she would run out of breath, and when their lips separated, Oliver's eyes were smiling – even if his mouth was giving her an uncertain little grin, as if he was a kid who'd gotten caught with his girlfriend. Casey beamed in return, unable to contain herself. In all her years of looking for the perfect man, she'd never dreamed she'd left him behind years ago.

"That was – "

"Enjoyable, I know, Oliver."

"More than that. You know what? I want to do it again."

Which he proceeded to do.

This time, Casey felt all of his love, fermented over the five or six years that he'd been absent from her life (though she hadn't been from his), erupt through his eyes and the contact he held with her through his lips and his good hand, and felt it overpower her.

"God, Oliver, you really liked me, didn't you?"

"Probably. I didn't exactly do my best to make you notice."

"Why not?" Her smile couldn't have been wider. "I might have returned it."

"Well, I didn't know it then – but in Princeton the walls tend to talk, if you catch my drift, and the wind has better hearing than a bat's." He sighed. "I don't know, Casey, I don't. Maybe I thought you were too young, you didn't have the experience I had, you hadn't seen enough of life, you didn't know enough . . . maybe that was it."

"Or maybe you were afraid I'd sue you."

"Well, that came to mind too."

She beamed as she laid her head on his shoulder and let him stroke her hair. It seemed a short time to know him again, only a week or so, to be swept up in his embrace; but she forgot, as always, that she'd known him for four years before, when he'd been sitting across the classroom and teaching them all the wonders of knowledge. It had been then, if ever in her life, that she had grown to become a philosopher – for after the four years she spent in his classroom, she grew to love the subject, though she didn't pursue it any further. Yet, she realized now, she had learned true philosophy every day, as long as she had been a lawyer. There was no better way to become a philosopher than to observe it in action, in the human condition that continued evolving with every day that passed.

"Oliver, do you think you're in love?"

"Maybe I am," he said, smiling down at her. "It depends on this quantity you're speaking of. Love. Has any philosopher at any point ever truly defined it?"

"Maybe," she replied. "I don't remember. I don't really care right now, I just want your answer. You're a philosopher. Do _you_ think _you_'re in love?"

"Well . . . must I answer?"

"What do you think?"

"I never know, Casey. I never know."

**Thanks to:**

_Readers_ - Well, we pulled through at the end. I'm sorry it took so long to wrap it up . . . but don't worry, 'A Many-Splendoured Thing' should be just around the corner.

_Crazy Care Bear_ - Well, I guessed he'd know that from Gulf War I.

_A proud geekfreak - _Oliver is not _that _naive, but he is an idealist nonetheless. But this story really exposes m own philosophy on good and evil . . . so . . .

_Lizzie9_ - Yeah, well, here's your final reward!


	24. Announcement!

**ANNOUNCEMENT!**

* * *

Okay, so this is what you'd call "necroing" this story.

I'm sorry to everyone who was expecting the sequel (and the fact is you've been expecting it for over a year now), but between other things, my computer was waterlogged, I really don't feel like retelling _how_, and I lost most of the stuff on it. That included the sequel I had planned.

Nonetheless, I did expect to get at least some hits on the sequel. That is "A Many-Splendoured Thing." I'm using this method for those of you who have this story still on your alerts or faves and will hopefully get the email.

I'm hoping to begin writing on it soon enough.

Signing off,  
Joachim Myrdal


End file.
